


Res Firma

by DarkBlueChild



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Bottom Dean, But it's a curse type of thing, F/M, Genderswap, M/M, Romance, Sibling Incest
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-03-10
Updated: 2019-05-15
Packaged: 2019-11-15 05:38:35
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 30,273
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18067607
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/DarkBlueChild/pseuds/DarkBlueChild
Summary: The Trickster makes a different decision and the boys’ lives take an alternate route.





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

  * Inspired by [Res Gestae](https://archiveofourown.org/works/178612) by [dreamlittleyo](https://archiveofourown.org/users/dreamlittleyo/pseuds/dreamlittleyo). 



> This story is an alternate version of dreamlittleyo’s Res Gestae. It’s a rewrite of the third chapter and the epilogue is ignored. Though there is enough context so that Res Firma can be read as a standalone piece, I wouldn’t recommend it - not only will you be missing out on a great fic, the first few segments will feel quite rushed without reading Res Gestae first.

"I don't think you're going to like it out here, babe," Dean says, "but I'll do my best."

The very moment that statement – that promise – escapes his lips, the peaceful ease that settled over him gets blown away by the realisation that _this_ was it, that he’d just won the wager. For the Trickster to show up the second Dean accepts that he’ll be staying as Karen and having Sam’s baby, consequently saying his goodbye to being Dean Winchester forever, is too much to be a coincidence.

Yet another dramatic entrance, though nothing will beat the cartoon-like mechanics of springing from a coyote, and Dean is once again sitting frozen on a bench, pissed off and mostly terrified of what’s coming next. 

"Excellent," the man says, sitting down by Dean’s side as he dissipates with the flick of a wrist the last of the glamour charm that gave him the eerie, ethereal look. With nothing left to do, Dean watches, taking it all in; the man is still beautiful, breathtakingly so, with hair that glistens like a mirror’s surface from every photon of light it catches, but there are wrinkles around his eyes indicating that he’s acquainted with what smiling and laughter are, and Dean hopes, almost prays, that the human exterior might be an indication of some humanity within.

“I do so love to lose on occasion," the demigod sighs contentedly, and Dean feels the blood start spreading on his tongue from biting too hard into the inside if his cheek.

“You've won our bet,” he states in a surprisingly sincere tone of voice, one that doesn’t imply that there might be a catch. “Your brother is free, and so are you,” he adds, but Dean hears ‘free’ as the freedom of the body, of _Karen,_ and that would mean the death of the child within him. Pure maternal instinct starts fighting the paralysis spell, jerkily driving Dean’s hand back to his stomach to cover it in a feeble attempt at protection.

He makes a sight so piteous that the Trickster decides not to milk the moment and prove that he does, every now and then, know of mercy.

“You’ll have your baby. Your Mary. After that, your life is your own. Who you will choose to be, included.”

And suddenly all Dean feels is relief, even joy, with a thousand questions but still no free will to voice them; he can only follow with teary eyes as the graceful asshole rises from the bench and walks away. No gliding, no special effects this time, only a gradual disappearance from his peripheral vision. By the time Dean regains enough control over his limbs to turn his head, the man is gone; one with the darkness around him once more.

“Your lives will be far easier with my protection. You don't even know the trouble you'll soon be in," Dean hears the wind whisper gently into his ear - a final goodbye - and he does not shiver.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~ 

Things have to be put right, and they have to be put right _now,_ Dean decides _._

He stole another hour of sitting on the bench after he was left alone, clenching and unclenching his fingers around the smooth wood, planning his next move. It took a while to process the Trickster’s words. Freedom. Sam saved. Dean wasn’t born yesterday; he knew all of it could’ve been lies and the man could spring from a bush yelling ‘ha!’ any second, but that way lies madness, and he won’t go down that road.

He thinks about not telling his brother anything, but lying for a lifetime without the condition that his brother’s life depends on it would be an impossible feat. Better sooner than later, then. Sam might not forgive him, could possibly even end up hating him, but the lie named Karen is now heavier than it ever felt before and Dean knows he has to shed its weight, for the sake of all of them.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam is organising the laundry when Dean comes back.

There’s a smile on his face when he sees Karen walk in, but it’s wiped off quickly when he notices the deer-in-headlights expression the young woman is wearing.

“Babe?” he asks, voice thick with uncertainty. His eyes instinctively scan for any visible injuries, but that doesn’t seem to be where the problem lies, and he almost wishes he hadn’t asked by the time Karen answers him. Something snaps; the world spins for a bit, then crumbles into pieces as he hears his girl say to him: “I know what happened to Dean.”

Sam stands frozen in shock as the whole story is told more _at_ him than to him. Most of the words are mumbled but still manage to make painful sense. A transformation, a demigod, a bet with his life on the line, and the words “I had to be your girl” leave Dean in a broken heap of tears on the floor. If not for the baby, Dean would’ve been able to control himself, but the hormones churning in his blood force him to display the agony he’s in as he watches Sam’s eyes turn darker and darker, and finally set into lines that radiate fury and betrayal.

Dean admits to his brother that it’s accepting his situation that’d won him the bet, hoping Sam will accept without questions that Dean’s male body was lost as collateral damage. From what the Trickster said – it might reappear after the birth, but that particular conversation will have to wait for a while longer.

The only thing Dean deliberately holds back on is telling Sam about the baby. That’s the key part, right there.

Sam has to process losing Karen without the bombardment of guilt and responsibility the news of the pregnancy will surely bring on. He needs to grieve; to put himself back together, and Dean knows that if he tells Sam about their daughter before he gets enough space and time to make peace with the situation, he’ll stop healing himself in order to turn his focus on taking care of Dean, and Dean just knows Sam wouldn’t mend right that way.

“Sammy-” he tries one more time, but Sam dismisses him in cruel anger and reaches for the Impala’s keys on the table.

After that, he’s gone, and stays gone for a whole week.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Sam rolls back into town the wind is blowing so much dust around that it could pass for a minor sandstorm. He barely greets Karen – _Dean,_ God help him – at the motel door before telling him to pack up and get in the car.

During his time away, more than once he’d thought of returning the Impala to the parking lot of the motel he’d left Dean at and walking away for good, without even saying goodbye. The red, venomous mist of anger still hangs thick around him, and for a while, he actually thought he was going to do it.  

He tried to convince himself that he’d done it all before – walked out on his brother without regret – and that it’d be easier for both of them; more a favour than punishment. Staying together means picking at the wound, not allowing it to scab; leaving it inflamed and oozing both their heartsblood until all the worn carpets of all the cheap motels of Middle America turn the shade of Winchester-red.   

Still, ten minutes later, when his brother’s lithe weight gently sways the car as he takes a seat beside him, all thought of leaving is gone from his mind. The faint scent of flowery shampoo from freshly washed hair fills the air around him, the clanging of thin plastic being shuffled around breaks the silence of the booth as slim fingers start digging through the box of cassettes, and with eyes closed Sam makes peace with the fact that even a Dean he can’t bring himself to look at is better than no Dean at all.

Sam starts Baby’s beastly engine and puts her back on the dry road; the direction he takes her in is decided by the stoplight at the crossroads. The highway stretches endlessly before them as they drive for four hours, stopping only for one bathroom break. Dean changes the cassette tape in the radio three times in a frustrated way that is so distinctly both Dean and Karen at the same time, making Sam grip the wheel like a lifeline when the barrier between the two people suddenly becomes blurred. The _how did I not notice_ question pops back up in Sam’s mind, and consequently gets stomped out for its troubles.

Dean pretends not to notice the frown and taut line of his brother’s shoulders, but changes out the Zeppelin one last time when he finds that he isn’t in the mood for them after all.

The sun is still beating heavily at their heads through the windshield when they find themselves two towns over, having done so for the sole reason of Sam not wanting the bed he’d been unknowingly fucking his brother in to be too near him. He pulls up at the driveway of the first decent looking motel he sees, a Happy Parrot Inn, and leaves Dean in the car while he walks up to the receptionist to get the keys for his first two queens in almost a year.

Dean huffs at him when he takes the bed closer to the exit, but otherwise they give it their best to settle back into one of their old routines. Sam isn’t sure which one they’re going for – estranged brothers put back on the road together, or the one where Sam and Karen were still strangers that suddenly had to live out of each other’s pockets. Either way, communication is limited, interactions are strained, and the unspoken rule is that they’re not to look at each other for longer than is absolutely necessary. 

Days pass by slowly, dragging their feet like trickle of molasses. They find themselves effectively stranded in the Caribbean themed motel room. Sam’s phone doesn’t ring with anything other than howareyous.

Though Dean dutifully finds a hunt nearby, it’s just a routine salt-and-burn in a rundown mansion not an hour away, on which he sends Sam by himself. Bells _should_ start ringing in Sam’s ears that something is not quite right just from that alone, but he’s too happy to blow off some steam to give his brother’s decision to let him go without him any thought.

There’s only so much a person can ignore when the living-space is shared, though; he’s noticed the tiredness, the bags under the eyes from the restless sleep he hears every night in the bed next to his, the appetite that seems nigh insatiable, but he writes it all down to his brother’s period probably being due soon, and refuses to mentally come near his observations again once he reaches that conclusion.

His beautiful, desirable Karen has disappeared overnight, replaced instead by someone he hoped he could come to recognise as his brother, but still doesn’t.

Dean did him the favour of leaving nothing for him to lust for when he shoved his pretty skirts and dresses to the bottom of his duffle bag and replaced them with comfortable, baggy clothing that seems to swallow him whole. The make-up seems to be a long-forgotten nightmare for his brother; hair is again the sloppy ponytail Sam remembers Karen wearing in the first weeks of their acquaintance.      

It doesn’t make it any less painful, though it at least doesn’t add to his anger.

Sam knows he should’ve started sympathising with his brother by now. His own cycle of grief will one day end, but it could be that Dean’s stuck in a female body for good. He’s had a week by himself to regurgitate and rechew it all, even more than that with Dean figuratively walking on tiptoe around him, trying to make himself as small and unobtrusive as possible, but _God,_ it hasn’t helped at all. He still feels betrayed, even though the part of him that houses logic and reason keeps nagging that Dean’s every action was for the sake of saving his life.

If his brother was back at being _Dean,_ Sam thinks there might’ve been a way to get past this.

But the reality is that his woman, and, from the signs he gathered before the Trickster released Dean from his hold, one day to be his _wife_ , is gone, all while she simultaneously remains by his side, kept at arm’s length, looking more like a small ghost than living flesh and blood. No amount of selective denial or deliberate repression will do him any good because no matter how much time passes, Karen’s face will still look right back at him whenever he tries to speak to Dean.

Sam doesn’t know if there’s a way to get around this, and the more it all rattles in his head, the more he wants to break and destroy. He needs to vent, but there’s a drought whereas hunting is concerned; it’s as if the monsters out there feel his anger radiating in hot pulses and have taken to hiding and not making any trouble so that they don’t get in the path of a half-crazed Winchester looking for good sport.

Without supernatural bodies to put his bullets and rage into, all that’s left for Sam is fuming in silence.

A doomsday clock is ticking in the distance; an invisible fuse keeps getting shorter and shorter; soon something will have to give and God help them both when it does.          

The devil is in the details, and it’s these specific details that keep hurting Sam almost as much as seeing Jess burn on that ceiling did.

The gradual rediscovery of bliss, a state he thought he’d said goodbye to the day he realised that putting away the hunter’s life is nothing but an illusion; nights of sweat-soaked limbs tangled in scratchy motel sheets; being with someone with whom he could take off the breath-constricting emotional restraints without which his brother usually behaved like a spooked fowl around him; the feeling of bringing all their pieces together and experiencing them click together so perfectly - only to later find out that all of it was actually something his _brother_ had to _endure_.

Christ, when his mind steels the reins and runs away from him to places he’d strictly forbidden it to go to – the memory of sheathing himself inside Karen for the first time; watching her face scrunch up in pain and surprise, and the blood later found on the duvet as proof of what exactly she’d given him that night.

All of it was Dean, Dean, _Dean_ , going through the mandatory motions while his personal sword of Damocles traced circles over his head.

If he allowed for conversation, if he trusted himself enough to start one without having to fear breaking mirrors with bare fists and throwing chairs through windows, Sam would ask his brother which was harder to live with: the disgust he must have felt in the beginning when he let Sam fuck him, or later, when enough time passed for him to get used to it and allow himself to enjoy it.

He doesn’t actually want to know the answer. They’re screwed up enough as it is; they don’t need the extra cream on top.

He watches Dean putter inaudibly around the room (and what’s with that, Dean’s never been a putterer), grabbing a clean shirt and socks from his duffel, and flannel that was draped over a chair. He watches his brother take the clothes into the bathroom to change, to hide Karen’s body from view, and resents how distant they’ve become, even though it’s his own doing.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They’re eating lunch at a diner adjacent to their motel when Sam broaches the subject of telling people that Dean is alive. It’s a quiet place, with mismatched crockery and tablecloths, but cosy in that American homey kinda way. There’s lots of flowerpots around them.

“I don’t want them to know,” Dean mumbles over a forkful of syrup-doused pancakes. Sam’s been wearing his ‘overanalysing something’ expression since he dragged himself out of bed this morning, and Dean’s been dreading the moment he was going to speak up, knowing it would be something that would throw him off balance. He feared that his brother figured out about the baby, and he breathes a sigh of relief when Sam proves him wrong, though the thought of telling people about him is almost as equally unappealing subject matter.  

He’s suddenly aware of the sun that’s in his eyes; he’s too hot from the extra flannel he’s wearing to hide his barely visible baby-bump, and the good mood his pancakes put him in has flown out the window.

Sam is nodding slowly in response, knowing exactly what Dean meant. The hunting community needs to be reassured, but they don’t need the gritty details of Dean hiding in Sam’s bed for most of the year.

“I can tell them I found out you left like Dad did,” Sam offers and watches Dean’s face acquire a pained look, one full of uncertainty. Their father set quite a precedent, and the story of Dean Winchester following in his old man’s footsteps feels like a plausible explanation for both his disappearance and continued absence.

But Dean hates it. _Hates it._

He loved their father and will worship his memory until the day they burn his body, but he doesn’t want people believing he’d do something like that to Sam. Their Dad at least had a proper cause; Dean doesn’t have a dead wife to avenge and the worst of what’s Hell got on his tail. Telling people that he ditched Sam and left him to search frantically for a year, and for God knows what reason, will make him look like _such_ an ungrateful asshole. He’s never been the type that cared much about what other people think of him, but he knows that the scorn of the hunting community won’t be comfortable to experience once he properly gets back, if they choose to go with it.     

“We owe them _something_ ,” Sam mutters into his coffee, his tone of voice frustrated and insisting, responding to Dean’s inner musings as if they’ve been broadcasted on his forehead.

“Bobby and Ellen at least-”

“You’re right,” Dean interrupts without looking up from his plate, but he has enough of Sam in his peripheral vision to register his shoulders slumping slightly, presumably in relief.

Sam sets his coffee mug back on the table, but doesn’t speak.  

“Start with Ellen,” Dean says decidedly, nodding to himself. “It’ll be practice for Bobby. Good luck lying to him, by the way” Dean adds. The situation is the furthest away from funny it can possibly be, but Dean still has trouble holding back a snicker. He stuffs his mouth full of pancake in an attempt to mask it and reaches for Sam’s coffee to wash it down for lack of his own, like he’s done dozens of time in the past. Sam doesn’t protest, pretends to ignore the familiar action, but they both know he won’t touch the mug again.

They’ve never been able to fool Bobby for long, and Sam will have to arm himself with nerves of steel when the late night calls with the questions and sub-questions and demands for the retelling of the story for the tenth time come.  

Sam flips his phone open in a fluid gesture, sitting up straight and looking as if he’s bracing himself for some strenuous activity, and Dean is grateful that his brother decided to do this in his presence.

He doesn’t put Ellen on speakerphone, but the call volume is high enough and the diner quiet enough for Dean to hear every word she’s saying. Sam keeps his eyes focused on the view from the window as he keeps dodging the woman’s questions. He can’t answer the hows and the whys; all he can do is throw _complicated_ in every slot it can possibly fit.

There’s relief and joy with a side of disappointment on the other end if the line and Sam feels like an ass for sitting on the news for weeks without picking up the phone to call her. He’s relied on everyone at the Roadhouse more than he’s had the right to; they weren’t blood, but the way they’ve stuck with Sam and shouldered the burden made them family, and guilty doesn’t scratch how he’s feeling now. He’s let them down and they don’t even know it.

“It's okay, Sam. So when are you coming by?” Ellen says in a tone of voice that doesn’t allow refusal, though with more sympathy and understanding than he will ever deserve, and Sam promises to drop by the Roadhouse as soon as he gets the chance. 

“She said to say hello to you,” Sam grinds out with a hardened expression, “both of you,” he adds with something Dean dares call poorly hidden venom, and that ends communication for the day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Sam’s promise to Ellen gives them a direction to move in, though they do so sluggishly.

They were three days away when Sam called her, but five days have already passed since then, and even if they aim to reach the Roadhouse by tomorrow, they would only show up at around closing time. There’s no way Dean can keep up with such a pace, not at almost five months pregnant, and he thanks his lucky stars when Sam agrees that they still keep their pace leisurely.

Night has already set over the town when Dean pulls up at a new motel parking lot – this one doesn’t have a theme, thank God – and gets out of the car vowing not to get behind the wheel again until Mary is born. His back, dammit, his poor, poor back. He’s never cursed the Impala before, but he now sees why people go for the new, plasticky cars with sofa-resembling seats installed in them instead of oldtimers, no matter how majestic they might be. Stupid, backbreaking benchseat. 

They get a room, and Dean swirls the car keys around his fingers before dropping them down on the table, happy to get rid of them for the first time in his life. The digital clock on the wall blinks nine thirty at them. Dean goes straight to unpacking as Sam drops himself on the bed and starts staring at the ceiling in silence. Dean knows that’s his brother hanging the ‘do not disturb’ sign, so he obediently ignores him, and finds himself startled three minutes later when Sam’s voice breaks the silence as he’s fishing for clean underwear through his duffle.

“There’s a bar ‘round the corner,” Sam offers.

There’s plenty of time to sleep in tomorrow, and Sam decided while they were still passing the endlessly rolling pastures hours ago that overindulgence in alcohol sounds like a brilliant way to spend this evening. He needs some respite, a break in the routine, even if it cost him a hangover in the morning.

“Nah, man, I’m sorry,” Dean says in a voice that’s just shy above a whisper, and Sam turns his head sharply to get a better look at his brother. There’s a guilty look on his face as he’s putting his gun under his pillow (his own gun, not the spare Sam gave Karen to use) and holding his pyjamas in the other hand, looking half-dead from exhaustion. Probably getting ready to shower and hit the sack already, Sam realises.

He knows he’s being petty, and unreasonable, but he finds himself pissed off at the rejection; it’s the first time he’s willed himself to make conscious effort to break the eerie status quo they’ve got going on, and the outreaching hand gets slapped away on his very first attempt.

He gets up on his elbows and scans the room. Walls, gaudy wallpaper, lamps, uncomfortable chairs, the clunky sound of the heater beginning a new cycle, duffels by his feet, too strong a scent of carpet cleaner – and he’s frustrated, more so than usual; he feels like his brain will turn into goo if he has to spend one more evening reading his eyes away and pretending that nothing is out of the ordinary.

He’s drinking tonight, he’s dead set on it. Dean by his side would have been a good deterrent for unwanted attention, but he’ll manage. He shuffles back into his shoes, and throws “don’t wait up” over his shoulder as he leaves Dean to the silence of the motel room. 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

It’s probably just Sam coming back from the bar, but it could also be a cavalry-charge, judging by the noise at least.

Dean wakes up to the sound of what is clearly a large body hitting into the front door before there’s a lengthy jingle of keys that gets them to open. Sam is a shadow in the doorway, an ethanol-evaporating shadow, and Dean uncovers himself, letting his feet fall to the floor. It’s unlikely he has the strength to break a fall if his brother trips or walks into something again, but he can do his best to minimise the damage if it comes to it.

A jacket is carelessly dumped on the floor as Sam crosses the room; shoes are being discarded on the way.

He thought Sam was aiming for the bathroom; his brother hasn’t touched him in weeks, he’s even made sure that their fingers never brush together, but suddenly Sam is there, right goddamn there on the bed above him, between legs that spread themselves on their own account, and any protesting noise Dean was going to make gets drowned out when Sam captures his mouth in a greedy kiss.

From a man that just demonstrated having trouble walking in a straight line you’d expect sloppy, but instead Dean’s shock is met with hunger and determination and _fury._ Dean feels teeth clashing with his own and a tongue demanding entry, so he opens his mouth and allows his brother to deepen the kiss before first blood gets drawn. Sam hasn’t said a word about Karen all this time, about his feelings, their situation, but _this,_ this here is louder and clearer that anything he could have expressed with his voice.

It’s punishment, pent up rage finally finding an outlet; it’s retribution for transgressions Dean fears he’ll never be forgiven for.

One of Dean’s hands is pulled over his head and is held there in a firm grip; his other one is left free and flaps uselessly at his brother’s chest. Sam’s grabbing his hair at the nape and pulling, forcing Dean to elongate his neck so that he can inflict abuse upon it that he knows will be visible for weeks. The hand holds him firm as Sam’s hot mouth licks and bites and sucks at delicate skin under his ear, his throat, above his collarbone, then at the collarbone itself, and suddenly Dean is whimpering; it’s been a long time he’s licked a battery, but it’s those same tingling jolts, not in his mouth but wherever Sam’s mouth locks down on, and Dean is barely holding back a whine and a sob.

Dean should mind, protest, fight – he could, Sam’s leaving himself open in so many ways, it wouldn’t be trouble to get him off, even knock him out – but instead he lets it happen, gasping and fighting for breath as his brother works at marking him up.  

There’s was fear in the beginning, fear that Sam would for some reason deliberately start pawing at his stomach and find his secret under his t-shirt, fear that Sam would drop all his weight on him, crush his small body and possibly hurt the baby, but that fear is gone now, ticked off as irrational, and all that’s left is guilt and pleasure, and guilt for feeling pleasure, and this is a bad, bad, bad idea.

“Sam!” he finally hisses when he realises Sam’s not planning on stopping anytime soon. The only response he gets is another yank at his hair, forcing submission as his head is turned to the other side, exposing the throat once again. Dean bites into his lower lip, but a moan still escapes when Sam starts invading the yet untouched territory, vocal cords reverberating, and Dean feels his body responding to Sam in a treacherous way, heat traveling through like a carrier wave to his nether regions, causing his muscles to clench at nothing and hips to grind against the hard front of his brother’s jeans.

Sam’s taken him rough before; he’s no stranger to how wild he can get. He’s body burns with memory as his brother’s clothes chafe against exposed skin, the lips on his skin so familiar that Dean’s finding it hard to believe just _how much_ he’s actually missed this.

Sam’s anger expressed in this manner washes over him like a long lost friend, the tactile memory of the aftershocks of hunts gone sideways, when Dean would forget that he wasn’t Dean in the heat of the moment, propelling too small and lithe a body into situations where such action was nothing short of suicidal, and before the monster’s blood even had any time to cool on the floor Sam would be growling like an animal into his ear, ripping clothes away, threatening that if it was maiming or death Karen wanted, he’ll give it to her himself, pissed off that she almost let a werewolf or a ghoul have the pleasure. 

“You’re such a whore,” Sam whispers suddenly, the sound gruff and barely audible in his ear, and a whole different kind of heat goes through Dean because that’s just _not fair_ , he didn’t have a choice, he _had to_ , but yet again no protest is voiced because that’s not what his brother means; his voice is so transparent that it doesn’t leave room for misinterpretation - it’s not spreading for his brother he’s getting accused for, it’s Dean liking it and later loving it that’s wrecking Sam, it’s letting Sam know it, it’s giving Sam something to love almost as much as he loved the brother he thought he lost, and then taking it away that stings and burns and bleeds.

Sam lets go of him as suddenly as he pinned him down, both hand and hair, and lifts himself on his hands, staring at Dean’s neck, apparently admiring his handiwork.

“A whore, Dean. And I want every goddamn hunter in that Roadhouse to see it.”

The emotion in his voice is nothing short of wrath, nowhere near spent, and before Dean figures out how to respond to the stinging accusation Sam removes himself from the spread of his legs, feet momentarily back on the ground as he gropes for the elastic edge of Dean’s sweats and underwear, pulling them off hard in a motion so swift that Dean feels the heat of friction-burn on his hips and legs and hears the sound of thread breaking in the soft material before it’s thrown to the floor. 

This is good, Dean suddenly realises. There is so much pain hiding behind the red that’s flashing through his brother’s gaze, but he finally has a way to soothe at least a fraction of it away. He can give this to his brother; give his body and his self as he’d done over a hundred times before, and it’s not just that he doesn’t mind, it’s that he wants to, _needs to_.

“Sam, you’re drunk,” he offers uselessly, knowing it’s only a formality, just so that if Sam retains all of his memory the next day he can’t ask him ‘why didn’t you’ and save them both of the embarrassment of that answer.

“Yeah,” Sam agrees through the sound of a belt being unbuckled and a zip being opened. He doesn’t bother with pulling his jeans down more than is necessary to allow his erection to spring free, and then he’s lying down between Dean’s welcoming legs once again.

Dean’s breath catches when Sam’s fingers brush against where he’s burning-hot and wet, entering him after a moment, at first an exploring touch, but soon after two fingers to the last knuckle; Dean’s back arches involuntarily at the unexpected contact and holy hell, he’s lost in it. He’s writhing under his brother’s touch and breathing raggedly by the time the hand gets drawn away; Sam lifts it and examines the slick-coated fingers, rubbing them against each other, watching the strings between them, extending the hand into the patch of nightlight coming through the window, hitting the corner of the bed.

And holy fuck, Dean realises with burning shame, it wasn’t done to give pleasure, because apparently that’s not what tonight is about; Sam was checking for blood, thinking Dean is on his period.     

He’s still stuck on waiting to see if his heart will give out from being too overwhelmed with the mix of lust, pleasure and humiliation when he feels Sam’s cock at his entrance, the tip sliding up and down for a bit to spread precome and Dean’s own slick around before the slow, stretching intrusion starts.

Dean has his lips sealed tight, the bottom one red and swollen from incessant biting, but the moans still escape through the back of his throat, and it would be more to add to his embarrassment if Sam wasn’t making unrestrained grunts and hisses of his own.   

Sam buries his head in Dean’s hair, arms circling under and around his body in something that would be an embrace if one hand hadn’t ended up gripping his hair at the nape again, and the other one under his back, gripping and scrunching up the material of his shirt as if it’s an anchor. Dean puts his own hands around his brother’s back and holds on for dear life.

Sheathed to the root, Sam stops all movement and keeps still for a while, leaving Dean time to gorge on the sensation of being filled again after so long. He really, really didn’t know he missed this so much.  

“Jesus,” Dean hears him mutter, and a sick jolt of pleasure runs through him at the sound. He can still do this; this body is still something Sam craves and he can still make it good for his brother. He can feel Sam already having to fight blowing his wad like he’s green at this, and after weeks of feeling like nothing but a thorn in his brother’s side, Dean feels _joy_.

He hooks his ankles around Sam’s back, allowing for even deeper penetration, and he feels the grip of arms around him get more smothering. He’s so full with his brother, Sam is _inside_ him, a burning stab of heat, and he feels even more slick pool around his brother’s cock when he clenches his muscles experimentally.

Sam hisses again at that; the sensation finally drives him into moving.

There’s no gradual transition from slow to fast, Sam’s thrusts are hard and deep and desperate as he starts fucking into Dean’s willing body. Sam’s cock is hitting right at that sweet spot where it’s supposed to. The rhythm is kept steady and Dean already starts feeling pleasure build up; Sam's grunts and groans get more desperate against his throat after less than two minutes; neither of them will last long.

Not even in his wildest fantasies did Dean think this was ever going to be a thing for him, but the feeling of his brother fuck him bare for the first time ever, feeling the perfect, smooth skin move inside of him, makes something click in his mind to phrase ‘this is what it’s supposed to feel like’.

Knowing that he’s about to be filled to the brim, combined with the fact that he already belongs to Sam in the most primal of senses - that he’s already bearing his child - puts his body into a gear he never knew he had, so when he feels his brother spasm in his arms, feels his cock start pumping him full of come with a wordless cry, that’s it for him; he’s flying right over the edge with Sam with an intensity he’s never felt before, not as Karen, and certainly not as Dean.

A broken scream escapes his lips and then he’s spasming and clenching, milking the last drop Sam can give him, and once he feels Sam’s grip release slightly he lets his body sink back into the mattress, suddenly feeling exhausted and limp, more like a ragdoll than a human being.

Sam doesn’t allow himself to linger in him even for a minute; he pulls out without a word or even looking at Dean, stumbling into the bathroom and slamming the door shut, making Dean wince at the harsh sound.

He doesn’t want to move, but lowering his pelvis even half an inch will make come leak out of him and make a mess on the bed, so he reaches for the box of tissues on the nightstand by his head and makes the job of cleaning himself fast and sloppy. He doesn’t bother with putting his clothes back on, the t-shirt on him is more than enough for the temperature of the room, and buries himself back under the comforter.

There’s an enormity to what just happened; status quo is broken, probably for good, and good luck to both of them if they try to run away from this tomorrow. Dean is aware that he should be awake and wide-eyed and thinking about it, but there’s only a haze in his mind; the lull of his orgasm and the tiredness of his pregnant state are too overwhelming, and they put him to sleep even before Sam drags himself out of the bathroom less than five minutes later.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Sam wakes up the next morning, he has a hard time processing where’s he’s even at; the hangover is that bad. The colour scheme of the room is too wrong to be the Happy Parrot Inn (no aquamarine everywhere, burning out his retinas), and by the faded purple of the wallpaper surrounding him Sam remembers that they’re miles and miles away from that one.

His bladder is killing him so bad that he fears he’ll piss himself before reaching the bathroom; he must have downed half his weight in water last night before he crawled into bed.

He gets into the shower, not thinking about anything other than how to ease the throbbing pain in his head and the nausea. The cool water beating down his body actually helps, and he feels somewhat refreshed by the time he brushes his teeth and walks out of the bathroom, towel wrapped around his lower half.

He gets dressed in clean clothes he takes from his duffle and is standing by the foot of his bed when his brain sends out that nagging alert that he’s forgetting something without actually clueing him in on what it is. He looks around; his jacket is hanging on a hook by the door, his shoes are placed by the bed in a way he’d never set them, the clothes he’s worn last night have been folded and are neatly sitting on one of the chairs - and why the hell has Dean been cleaning up after him?  

Dean. Not with him in the room. Clue number one. So where is he?

A single glance at Dean’s bed is enough to bring it all back, and _holy fuck, what has he done?_

The memories come at him like a broken montage, as if somebody took the film-tape out of its container and cut it up into segments, then left him to struggle with the chronological order. Shots came after the beer; they must have, because he always starts the hard liquor after he’s already a little buzzed. The blonde that he sent away politely probably came before the brunette that he practically shoed away, but where that guy that told him he was cute and bought him a few drinks was in all that, he has no idea.

And then there’s Dean, and his legs wrapped around him, crossed at the ankles, one heel digging into his back.

Panic rises in him, gut-wrenching panic as he frantically looks around and gets rewarded by the sight of Dean’s duffle and the Impala’s keys still sitting on the table. Shame washes over him as he thinks that his brother is a stronger man than he is, possessing a dick or not, because Sam’s bolted more than once for much less.

Getting out of the motel and checking at the diner across the street is to be the first step in his search, but he finds Dean sitting right there on the small stairs outside their room as soon as he opens the door. 

There’s a half-drunk coffee in his hands, and another cup sitting untouched by his side. By the cup lies a small white bag with some pharmacy logo, and Sam’s stomach does another rollercoaster turn at the sight. There’s a morning-after pillbox in there, he knows beyond doubt. The memory of immensely enjoying fucking his brother without a condom comes back to him with the intensity of getting hit over the head with a baseball bat, and how could he have been such an asshole?

The weather is nice, sunny, for long sleeves but no jacket needed, and Dean is once again swallowed by a flannel. His hair is let down for a change, nowadays so long that it covers an impressive portion of his back, and Sam remembers with painful clarity what his brother has to hide with it.

“Hey,” Dean turns to greet him. There’s no smile on his face, but he also looks like it’s just another regular morning and nothing out of the ordinary happened last night.

“Hey,” Sam returns the greeting limply, almost choking on the word.

He moves to sit by his brother, asking “this for me?” as he picks up the coffee cup sitting on the floor, ignoring the pharmacy bag entirely.

“Yeah,” Dean confirms, and they both pretend for a minute or two that it’s just for drinking coffee that they’re both sitting there.

“Dean-” Sam tries, but is cut off immediately.

His brother knows him, better than anyone ever has or will, knows what the sham of an apology he was about to gush out would have sounded like (because how does one _properly_ apologise for what he’s done last night), and Sam can’t help but feel grateful that Dean absolved him from saying it out loud.

“It’s okay, Sam,” Dean says, and Sam quirks a nervous eyebrow at him without actually intending to. Because it’s not okay. In fact, it’s the furthest away from okay it can get.

He knows he’s wearing his most shattered expression, but he can’t help it; the coffee in his hand is visibly shaking no matter how hard he tries to hide the tremors, but of course, Dean notices.  

“I didn't mind, you remember that, right? You don’t have it half-fuzzy in your head and think you forced me?” Dean’s asking, lifting his gaze off the floor, locking his eyes with Sam’s. Sam’s expression does a one-eighty, changing from shattered to deer-in-headlights. Yeah, Sam has it clear enough to remember that it was not forced, just rough, but for Dean to say that _he didn’t mind_ \- that’s something else entirely. There’s emotionally compromised, and then there’s _this,_ Sam thinks with despair.

“Did I hurt you?” he asks, voice almost breaking again, dreading the answer. He’s rehashing everything he has of last night again; he doesn’t think he did, but he needs it confirmed nonetheless.

Dean waves his head to say no, a sad half-smile making an appearance on his pretty face, and Sam lets out a breath he wasn’t even aware he was holding.

Apparently there wasn’t going to be a proper conversation about it at all, because suddenly Dean is back up on his feet, walking back towards the motel door with a spring in his step that proves his answer genuine.

"Come on, dude. I let you sleep it off too long. We're going to be late meeting Ellen,” Dean says, casually, and Sam’s jaw fights not to hit the floor.

“No!” Sam chokes out, a bit of coffee actually spluttering between his legs, because what the hell is wrong with his brother? “We can’t go to the Roadhouse _now_. You look-”

“Like you fucked me stupid last night? Thanks for the heads up, dude, but I was aware of that.”

Sam doesn’t know how to respond to that; he keeps staring at Dean with his mouth agape for a while before finally regaining his composure.

“Dean-”

" _Sam_. Relax. No one in their right mind will judge. You're my boyfriend, remember?”

Sam flinches at the words, flinches hard because it’s a terrible truth he’s willed himself to forget these last couple of weeks. He tried to shovel away Karen, his lover; has been trying his hardest to come to peace with the fact that Karen is Dean, and that the small body in his space is actually his brother’s, and he forgot for the time that they’re the only ones that know their secret. To the rest of the world they’re just a lovely, young couple - no spells, Tricksters, incest or melodrama involved.

Dean’s right, no one will judge.

“Fine,” he grunts out when it becomes clear to him that he’s acting like a silly goose. “Let's go.”

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

The rain caught them during the last hour of their drive to the Roadhouse, the sun left long behind even though it was only three o’clock. Dean wasn’t happy with the change in weather, but was at least grateful that most of the dust has been washed off the Impala. Baby still needs a good scrub and a rubdown to get her all shiny and pretty the way he likes to keep her, but that will have to wait until the sky settles itself back into dry. 

They talked during their ride, for a change, making sure that their stories match in case someone asks ‘Karen’ for her opinion, though they haven’t touched the subject of last night anymore.

Sam’s mood seems to match the brown and grey of the horizon, judging by the frown marring his face, but Dean feels oddly at ease.

It’s not that he feels like the ball is in his court now that Sam has something to feel guilty about as well - in fact, it makes him feel like shit to see Sam’s mood take a turn for the worse, but at the same time he feels a weight drop from his chest. The line has been crossed, the scales have been tipped, and they’re in this together now more than they were yesterday. It’s not ideal, but Dean has to draw comfort from wherever he can find it.

Gravel crunches under the wheels of the car, then under their feet as they walk towards the bar.

They’re greeted as they expected they would be, everyone throwing their arms around Sam and buzzing with curiosity and expectation. They tell everyone the story they’ve weaved on their way there, without actually telling them anything at all. The Winchester Vanishing Act, as Ash dubs it, and soon the other hunters disperse back to their respective tables, leaving Sam and Dean alone with Jo and Ellen.

Dean paid close attention to the two women as Sam told the thrilling story of cryptic messages, coordinates, a chase across the country, and that one phone call that proved Dean Winchester still walks the earth. Where’s he’s at right now, Sam still doesn’t know, but he’s all right and that’s all that matters for now.   

Though every word Sam told them was a lie, his eyes told the truth that his brother lives and is okay. Jo and Ellen could see that Sam is still troubled, but they noticed that the desperation that hung around him for over a year is finally gone; the change is so great that they take all his words as the truth and don’t grill him further on it.

Ellen insists on feeding them and having them stay for the night, which they reluctantly accept, but she first asks Sam to help her bring some beer crates from the back. He follows Ellen gladly; they’re both through the door, but Sam’s still within earshot when Jo speaks to Dean.

“How is the baby?” he hears her asks Dean excitedly, then his jaw hits the floor.

He turns whiplash quick and sees Dean’s eyes open wide at the sight of him; the look on his face is all Dean needs to know that Sam heard the question, and then he’s off the stool and flying out the front door as if there’s an actual monster on his tail.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This chapter was originally meant to be the last one, but I've split it in two when I realized that it would be a 20k behemoth if I didn't.

Sam thought he knew what guilt was, he really did, but the only thing he now knows for certain is that he’s an idiot. 

He can feel the burn of over a dozen pairs of hunters’ curious eyes on him from all around the bar, including Jo’s, whose panicked face clearly states that she realises what she just did. Ellen is right behind him, confused, looking back and forth between Jo and Sam, waiting for someone to tell her what’s going on and if she needs to batten down the hatches. She thinks the thought without judgement; there’s a Winchester under her roof, and no matter how much one loves them, they almost always end up being the harbingers of some kind of trouble.   

Dean made a scene, and Sam knows he’s going to make an even bigger one if he follows him in the same fashion, but it doesn’t stop him from running through the swinging doors of the bar and after his brother. It sets pretty much everyone’s eyebrows shooting up to their hairlines, but that’s a crinkle to smooth out for later.

The body Dean’s in is as nimble as a wood-nymph’s, and Sam used to tease Karen that she could outrun a Wendigo if she ever needed to. His brother is nowhere to be seen, the head start had granted him that, but instinct drives Sam to run into the wet grass to his left and trek past some ferns and smaller trees, heading straight for an old oak he remembers punching an eternity ago. It was a good guess, because there’s Dean behind it, leaning against the wet bark and heaving way too heavily from such a short run.

The patter of rain is all around them, leaves rustling dully with each drop that hits them. The clouds above the thick treetops are so black and sinister that the little ambient lighting passing through them makes their surroundings look like the sun had set already. The downdraft winds of the thunderstorm brought the smell of ozone to their latitude, and being outdoors in this weather is almost as stupid as challenging a werewolf without any silver on one’s person. Not that that would be a first for the Winchesters either.  

Dean acquires the look of a cornered wild animal when Sam spots him while rounding the oak, eyes wide but braced for a fight, and it makes Sam feel like punching himself.

“Is it true?” he asks, though he doesn’t know why, since Dean’s behaviour is nothing short of a confirmation, but he needs to hear Dean say it nonetheless.

“Sam-”

“Is it true!?” he’s suddenly yelling, and dear God, he sounds like Dad when he was at his worst without even intending to raise his voice.

“God, fuck, yes! I’m knocked up!” Dean shouts right back at him, eyes angry and challenging but standing his ground. It’s the first time he’s raised his voice and exhibited his natural fiery temperament in weeks, so gently has he been treading around Sam all this time, but the ground got pulled from under his feet when he was least expecting it would be, and now that his secret is out he’s finding himself temporarily out of patience with both Sam and the world.  

The words freeze Sam in his tracks, and the sky decides it’s a good time to chime in, voicing its own opinion on the subject in the form of opening up and starting to dump most of its contents on their unprotected heads. They’re soaked through, standing in muddy shoes that will certainly make squelching sounds by the time Sam breaks the spell.

“Oh god,” he whispers.

“Yeah,” Dean agrees.

“How?” Sam asks, stupidly, the cogs and gears in his brain suddenly grinding together painfully, the entire machinery making strained screeching sounds indicating overload.  

“Want me to draw you a diagram?” Dean spits out viciously, annoyance amped up to the max because _seriously_ , rolling his eyes and making Sam wince when he shoots him a pointed look. Real-life condom effectiveness is eighty-five percent, no matter what the writing on the packaging says; Sam knows this. Apparently it’s them that happened to be the lucky suckers to draw the short straw and became another statistic.

Thunder rolls ominously over the darkened hills in the distance, the flash of its lightning too far to be seen. They’re both losing body heat fast from the sheets of cold rain washing over them, but all Sam seems able to do is stand frozen and mute, looking more lost than Dean’s ever seen him before. And that’s saying something, because Dean’s the one that stood by his side watching him keep his cool when Jess died.

Dean’s anger deflates at the sight. It wasn’t actually Sam he was angry at in the first place, but at himself, even though his brother came after him shouting. Deciding when to tell Sam about the baby was the only thing he had control over in this whole mess, and he blew it by not thinking to call Jo beforehand to give her the necessary heads-up that the pregnancy was still a secret.

Of course Sam’s looking like steam will start whistling from his ears; he couldn’t have expected that there would be a round two of earth-shattering revelations. Now that _this_ cat is out of the bag, getting to chew himself out over something like last night’s events is probably rapidly becoming a wistful dream for him.     

Dean sighs heavily despite himself; he might be the one with the backache, bleeding gums and heartburn, as well as the need to run away from his problems by hiding under a friendly rock for the next four months, but it’s becoming clearer with each passing second that it’s still Sammy that needs actual taking care of. After all, it was Dean’s job to make sure this blow came as soft as it possibly could have, and he failed at it so fucking fantastically that Sam’s broken again, looking like he’s had a couple of fuses blown in his brain and now the circuit needs resetting badly.

“Come on,” Dean says, shoulders slumping in defeat, because there’s no running away from this, and all his foolish literal attempt got him was wet down to his underwear. Sam’s gonna want to talk about this once his system finishes rebooting, so Dean starts walking past him, slowly despite the continuing abuse of the rain, back towards the parking lot without bothering to avoid the puddles under his feet.

Sam turns to follow him, moving as if controlled by invisible strings, but doesn’t get in the car quick enough to avoid letting some of the downpour get inside with him. He’s a sitting human water puddle as he stares at the rivulets of rain running down the windshield, barely noticing Dean rummage through a bag on the back seat, grabbing towels and throwing them in Sam’s lap.

“Before you think to freak out about it,” Dean starts while trying to rub dry the wet, heavy locks falling over his eyes, “I’ve checked for genetics. My body isn’t related to yours at all.”

Oh, hell.

Yeah, that seems like a rational thing to panic over when in a situation such as theirs, if Sam had enough grey matter available to get there. Now that Dean pointed it out, though, Sam feels the pain inside him twist even harder. Guilt. So much guilt. They’ve been living on the road all this time, and it must have taken weeks for Dean to get his hands on those test results. Thoughts of all that his brother must have been through sear red-hot burns into his mind, from the weeks of heart-wrenching anxiety that must have plagued him until he found out that he wasn’t carrying a fruit of incest and could keep the pregnancy, down to probably morning sickness that was expertly hidden away.  

Sam realises suddenly just _how selfish_ he’d been all this time, oblivious to the underlying pain of all of Dean’s sacrifices for him that he goddamn _knows_ he should have acknowledged sooner.

It took heavy blows to get there, both the events of last night and finding out about the baby, but the last of the hypothetical red Sam’s been having in his eyes finally clears, replaced instead by helplessness and despair, and the body Dean’s in doesn’t matter at the moment – all he wants is to hug his brother, but he figures that he’d probably end up with a broken nose if he tried. He wants to laugh again, to make fun of Dean's eating habits, and superglue his hand to something embarrassing and have it all back to the way it's supposed to be.

"I'm sorry," he says instead of trying to reach over, and it means too many things at once. It’s just three syllables, but there’s an added weight to them, as Sam needs them to mean _everything_. His brother is sitting beside him stuck in a body that only has Winchester blood flowing in it because Sam fathered the baby it’s carrying; Sam is alive only because Dean was strong and brave enough to go through it all, and he needs Dean to understand that he gets it now, gets that he fucked up, and that he’ll make it better – _be_ better from now on.

There’s plans to make, responsibility to take, but first of all, they have to talk about it. 

“The pill, this morning-?” he asks when the memory of the white pharmacy bag trudges to his attention, because that doesn’t add up.

“A diversion. I wanted you to have time to process all the rest of it first,” Dean answers bitterly, clearly thinking that these three weeks he’d given Sam weren’t enough and is pissed off that he screwed it up, and Sam realises that the pile of stuff he will have to beat himself up for has grown yet again.

Sam _really_ thought he knew what guilt was.

Christ, it’s like his brother is trying to be the poster-boy for martyrdom. To Dean this whole situation is no different from mothering him when he was only a child himself, no different from giving little Sammy the last of his favourite cereal, no different from jumping in front of razor-sharp claws and risking his life in order to spare Sam from getting a minor scratch. It’s all just upscaled, albeit drastically, and Sam’s fingers starts digging into his own thighs almost painfully from the discomfort that thought brings on.

The rain is starting to let up; it’s still heavy, but it toned down on its end-of-the-world intensity. Sam notices that the violent thumping on the roof of the Impala has ceased, and when he looks up from his lap where he’d been hiding his gaze he sees that the whole Roadhouse is visible again, not just its blurred silhouette. The smell of rainwater and ozone is thick even inside the car, and Sam thinks that they couldn’t have gone for a more dramatic moment to rush out into the elements than this one if they tried to. Movie-like is what this was, and he knows how silly he’ll feel for it when they go back into the bar looking like drowned rats.

He turns to Dean with an assessing look, giving his brother a quick once-over. Still no baby-bump in sight, even with heavy, wet clothes clinging to him.

“How far along are you?” Sam asks very quietly, finally braving to ask the most important question at this moment, and braces himself for the answer. Dean’s brow furrows and shoulders tense visibly, as if he’s got something to brace himself for as well as. How long can it be? The body he’s in is relatively petite, and it’s not that Sam has any actual knowledge on the subject, but he thinks that two, maybe three months is the max such a figure can hide - 

“Five months,” Dean answers gruffly and keeps staring out the window, eyes focused far on the bleak horizon, not even bothering to keep Sam in his peripheral vision.

“What the _actual fuck_ , Dean!?” Sam practically yelps, because who could have anticipated _that_ answer? Jesus, they’ve stopped sharing a bed only a few weeks ago, meaning that he was having sex with Karen on a daily basis while she was _four_ months pregnant by the end of it without noticing. Just how big of an idiot is he?

His brother finally turns to him, waiting for more shock to pour out of his mouth. The look he pins Sam with is part guilt and part accusation, tight-drawn eyebrows sending a clear message, both _I’m sorry for keeping it from you_ and _do you see the shit I’ve been putting up with for almost half a year while you were blissfully ignorant?_ Sam takes a breath and turns away; he keeps his mouth shut so that he doesn’t say something that’ll mean putting his foot in it even further, because the last thing he wants is for the tables to turn on them completely, with Sam being the guilty one and Dean the angry one all of a sudden. Luckily, him standing down stops Dean from bristling even further.   

“Yeah,” Dean says with a sigh, answering Sam’s silence, and throws a bitter smile at the dashboard. “Not having to look like I’ve swallowed a basketball is just about the only favour this body decided to do me.”

He starts digging through his pockets for the car keys. He jingles them at Sam once he finds them in his flannel, expecting his brother will be glad to ditch the Roadhouse and all the looks and questions that would await them inside, but Sam instead just looks bemused, not reaching to accept them.

“I’d have to take it about forty miles under the speed limit just to keep from driving us off the road,” Sam says, pointing at the windshield that’s just shy away from looking like someone’s spilling buckets of water on it, annoyance and exasperation welling up with each syllable that leaves his lips.

“Never stopped us before,” Dean replies, ignoring his brother’s stubborn look and actually allowing some cockiness into his voice, even the beginnings of a grin, because what is lunacy for other people is where the Winchesters are at home at. 

“I’m not risking driving in this rain with you in your condition,” Sam states in a clipped tone that parents usually use to let their kids know that they’ve put their foot down.

“Oh, for fucks sake!” Dean shouts, feeling as if he’d been slapped. “It’s _just_ rain!” he starts insisting, but only gets ignored. And so it begins, he thinks with despair - Sam’s going to be mother-henning the living life out of him from now on.

Sam doesn’t allow for a fight to erupt, he just opens the car door and steps back into the rain. He gets both their duffels from the trunk, then walks over to the artificially-lit porch of the bar, footsteps sounding real heavy on the old wood from his soaked boots, and waits patiently as Dean takes too long to follow just to spite his brother for making the decision for both of them.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

A funny thing happens.

Sam thought returning inside the Roadhouse was going to be an embarrassing affair, but Dean saves the day effortlessly. It makes Sam think.

“I thought I left a bag full of ammo at the motel!” he shouts out with a beaming smile to Ellen who is drying glasses behind the bar, strategically loud enough for most of the people inside to hear him. Ellen returns a smile that’s equally as wide, starts laughing after a beat at the thought of a horrified cleaning-lady stumbling upon clips and magazines, and Sam watches the exchange incredulously. “‘S all good, though, sorry, sorry,” Dean sheepishly starts apologising for freaking everyone out with bolting off the stool and out the room the way he did.

They’ve been out for too long in this weather just to be turning over the car for a misplaced ammo bag, but surprisingly everyone believes Dean’s blatant lie. Sam watches it slide off his brother’s lips easily, over the same cocksure grin intended for bullshitting that Dean patented in his early teens. The stupefying thing for Sam is that he’d seen the same one on Karen’s face over a dozen times throughout the year, and it’d be a falsehood to say that he didn’t make the connection just how _like Dean_ she was in those moments.

He just didn’t connect it all the way.

He remembers those occasions making him feel warm and safe; the more she reminded him of his brother – and she did, often, in more ways than this one - the more he loved her. It was precisely that which was driving him insane after he found out the truth. Karen came into his life in the form of gift-wrapped comfort, as something his subconsciousness interpreted as second-best to Dean, and Sam lay drinking on a motel bed for seven days and seven nights trying to figure out if it was the female character-overlay that Dean fed him that he found perfect, or if it was all of Dean that leaked continuously through the cracks of the façade that hummed as perfection to him.  

He glues his gaze to Jo’s face, searching for some form of recognition sparkling in her eyes as he watches her standing by his brother’s side, running her long fingers through Dean’s damp locks, teasing him about being a silly goose. The two of them have started a playful banter, Dean not bothering at all to tone down on his true character, and Sam wants to shake Jo’s shoulders and ask her how the hell can’t she see that his brother is right in front of her. The answer to that is a simple one – the same way he couldn’t. Dean hid in plain sight, right under their noses, from both his sibling and the woman in love with him, as well as all the rest of the people that knew him, and it was _easy_ for him to do so. A good thing, that, since it would have meant Sam’s life was forfeit if it went down any other way.

As Sam keeps watching the exchange between them, realisation dawns on him that he might’ve been too hard on himself for being deceived. Too hard on Dean, as well.

The more time passes, the more he comes to grasp that Karen wasn’t just some mask Dean was wearing. With every memory he brings to life, re-examines and reconsiders, comes the confirmation that Karen _was_ Dean.

Like an old photo-album flipping inside his mind, the memories are crystal clear and achingly real.

Dean’s cassette box that she dug out happily from under the seat on the very first day, with music in it of the type that would make most people opt for the radio instead. Instead, she’d blast it in the car and sing along to Enter Sandman, her voice an equal match for the car volume. Her hunger for chilli cheese fries, and the way she always ate them in unladylike, messy handfuls that left her licking her fingers clean for want of napkins. The shadow on her face whenever Sam talked about his brother, sad but cautious, presumably not to overstep her boundaries, but the truth was something else entirely.

Sam thinks that he must look as miserable as he feels, because Ellen is shooing them up to their room and ordering them to come back down for dinner after they’ve showered and changed.

Up the staircase behind the bar they climb and three doors to the left they go once they reach the second-floor hallway. Harwell’s doesn’t offer rooms for rent, only close friends are let up here, and even though Sam doesn’t take the trust and generosity lightly, his stomach still sinks at the sight of the king-sized bed dominating the small room. It’s a heavenly thing, all fluffed up and ready, not something one would expect to find in a hunter’s haven, but the thought of sharing it makes them both fight down a groan.

They’ve never stayed the night at the Roadhouse before, but why they both thought they’d be given a key for two queens, neither of them has any idea. Other than just that they’re plain idiots forgetting for the tenth time in the last few weeks that they’re still a couple whereas the rest of the world is concerned.  

“Complain, I dare you, princess,” Dean mutters tiredly in his _don’t you dare_ voice, because it was Sam’s idea to stay, after all. He waits for a response for a beat or two before his shoulders tense with realization of what he’d just said. Princess.

There’s Karen speaking to him again, Sam thinks. His love, his golden girl. His would-have-should-have-been wife. Dean. His brother. The one he loves the most. The line is so blurred nowadays that Sam’s not sure he can it a line at all anymore. It wasn’t done on purpose, he’s aware of that; the endearment is a habit that’s been set in stone long ago, and it was only a matter of time before he heard it again.

The ground is still shaky under both their feet, and a silence starts stretching thin between them as they’re trying to figure out how to react.

There would be a gaping hole in Sam’s chest, a panicked need to flee – if Sam hadn’t connected all the dots today and figured out that Dean wasn’t actually faking any of it. If it wasn’t only yesterday that Dean had yielded himself to Sam so sweetly, spreading both arms and legs and giving him comfort in the most primal of ways. If Sam hadn’t had the audacity to _take_ him like he was something that belonged to him, and was allowed to do so without receiving a word of complaint. If Sam didn’t know that Dean was carrying their child.

It still hurts, the wound raw and itchy, but Sam can’t lie to himself that today, for the first time, it hurts _less._ It doesn’t make it all any less _wrong_ , getting everything he wanted jammed into one person instead of two, and it’s still going to take a lot of time to adjust, but it’s good consolation, knowing that he’s getting the best of both worlds. He wanted his brother back. He wanted Karen bearing their child, maybe not so soon, but certainly one day. Both of that is standing right across the room, biting its bottom lip nervously.    

A shift happened now that it all clicked into place, as if a powerful earthquake had struck; currents have changed, patterns were destroyed, the map has been rearranged and this here, where they’re at in this moment, is uncharted territory with all of its fabled dragons.

"Shit, Sammy, I'm sorry," Dean splutters, cheeks flushing red, because he swore to himself he’d never use that name again. It’s just rubbing more salt into Sam’s wound, as if his very existence at the moment wasn’t enough.

“It’s ok. I don’t mind,” Sam says, actually means it, willing his gaze not to fall to his feet from his brother’s face. Dean looks at him incredulously, doe eyes wide open. It strikes Sam as funny that Dean thinks _this_ is crossing the line, when only this morning he told him that he _didn’t mind_ something far more unforgiving, at least by normal people’s standards.

“Keep it. If you switch it back to ‘bitch’, everyone’s gonna figure out who you are in no time.”

“Huh,” is Dean’s only reply, coming after half a minute of contemplative silence, sheepish and a bit wary, but it’s followed by an acknowledging nod, and then he’s gone behind the closed door of the bathroom, shower running in less than a minute.

 

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

 

In the end it turned out they could have put themselves back on the road easily. The clouds got over their hangover and the skies lost their coal-dark tint in less than half an hour after they’ve gone upstairs.

There was an array of raindrops still clinging to the glass of the window in their room; Sam stared at it to pass the time as he waited for his turn in the shower. The pale grey sky that served as the view above the round, chunky treetops was speckled with a few of the day’s last rays of sunlight.

The room’s sole heater seemed to be working itself to exhaustion, judging by the rattling noises it kept making and the pink it brought on Sam’s cheeks from the too warm air. Any other day he would have opened the window to let in a bit of the early autumn’s chill, but Dean was about to come out of the bathroom, and Dean was pregnant and needed taking care of, and there was a sentence Sam would have bet his liver on that he’d never utter or think in his life.

The leaves of the thick forest their room had the view of were still mostly green, with only a few hints of the oncoming autumn golds and reds. As Sam watched them sway gently in the breeze the storm left behind, his mind was making battle with the realisation that by the time Dean gives birth – and what a thought that is - all the branches will be bare, with everything in sight brown and rotting on the ground, while he’ll be holding a new-born child in his arms.     

It was still too strange to him, alien even, as if he wasn’t sure yet that it might not all turn out to be a dream. As of that moment it was still only an information; the baby was just a few words Dean shouted at him while getting drenched under a tree. There was nothing yet for him to see, hold, _feel_ , too little time has passed, and it was too big of a surprise.

Babies were a concept he’s had tucked in his mind for a far future, something that would come when he’d settle in his thirties, when he’d have a successful career in law, a wife and dogs and _a permanent residence,_ for chrissake. When both him and Dean would be weaned off the hunter’s lifestyle, would meet up for lunch and beer or maybe for runs, and both would have more practical cars than the Impala.

But there he was, in a hunter’s den, dealing with the side-effects of a heavy curse inflicted by a demigod that just happened to be parenthood.

When he was sixteen, butting into a monster fight against his father’s commands left him deaf, blind and mute for four days, and Sam had clear memories of miserably thinking that it was the end of the world, as far as work-related consequences go. Other than outright maiming, how much worse could things have gone? It really turned out that he was a clueless kid then, just like his father told him after he’d restored his senses.   

Sam wasn’t sure what benefit of staying at Harwell’s he saw when they were in the car once they got settled in their room.

He thought that driving away in a downpour and searching for a new motel to crash at would be a hindrance in getting to talk to Dean seriously, especially since he knew his brother wasn’t too keen on talking about it, but Dean used their current surroundings to his benefit and managed to delay the conversation until it was almost bedtime.    

Sam wanted to talk about the baby, about their situation, he was burning with the need to, but after he finished with his own shower Dean was no longer in the room, there was only a heap of his soaked old clothes bundled in the corner to greet him back. 

The search for his brother was a short one; Sam found him downstairs, conversing with Jo in the shadowed corner of the room where they always huddled when they came around, the blonde still wearing a guilty look on her face even though it was obvious from Dean’s body language that he was assuring her that everything was all right.

Ellen sat Sam down at a table as soon as she spotted him and made the girls join him, and it became clear to him that he wouldn’t get a moment alone with Dean for a long while.

Sam really regretted not taking the car-keys and braving the storm at that point.   

The older woman fed them delicious dinner, and even bullied them into having fun after it, with him and Dean beating Jo and Ash at pool over and over again for half the evening.

Even so, Sam couldn’t relax for the most part, since Ellen watching Dean suspiciously from the moment he refused beer and asked for a soda instead made Sam feel stupider than ever, because if he’d been paying attention as well, he too would have noticed the signs of something being off. Yes, eating slowly and refusing alcohol _is_ suspicious when it comes to his brother, in whichever body. The woman shot him a knowing look by the end of the evening, and Sam couldn’t fight off the sheepish, embarrassed smile that crawled onto his face as a reply. He wasn’t certain that she’d figured it out completely, but she was definitely on the right track.  

However much Dean wanted to stay downstairs until he collapsed on his feet in order to be allowed to go straight to sleep once he returned upstairs, they said goodnight to their friends relatively early. The bar was still half-full, an impromptu darts tournament had been organised that Dean was itching to get into, the room echoed with laughter and sounds of people having a generally good time, and Dean hated to leave, even though Sam was glad to.

_Especially_ since Sam was glad to.

The silence was an awkward, buzzing thing while they were returning to their room, breaking at its seams, _pregnant_. When Sam sits on the edge of the bed, he pins Dean down with his ‘we’re talking about it’ look, making him glower. Dean doesn’t want to. He knows he has to, knows he owes it to his brother, but he doesn’t want to.    

The room is dimly lit, the only light source a night lamp with a very low wattage bulb, and Sam isn’t exactly a silhouette on the bed but his face is still half-covered in shadow. His eyes are gleaming, though, cat-like, burning with intent.   

“You know, before, when you lied about the ammo, it reminded me that I’ve never met anyone who could bullshit quite as good as you,” Sam says in a downcast, worn-out voice that doesn’t match the accusation of his words. Dean tenses, this clearly not being the angle he was expecting the conversation to take, not linking where it’s going. “Except Karen,” Sam adds, this statement having a bit of venom seep through, and yes, Dean _really_ doesn’t like where this is going.

He thought reciting his ob/gyns’ speeches about good foetal development and, _yes, Sam, I’ve been taking my vitamins when you weren’t looking_ were going to be the main dish on tonight’s menu, but it seems that Sammy’s probably going to hold onto those for desert.   

“Can you imagine how stupid I feel for not seeing it?” he continues, making Dean crumble at the words.

Because, yeah, he’d be willing to bet both kidneys that he can, and his face says so.

He’s painfully aware that he pulled Sam too deep into it when he eased down, when he abandoned the razor’s edge where he should have kept himself at while he was still his brother’s lover. He knew that it would cost him, knew _what_ it would cost him, but he couldn’t actually fight it while it was happening. It all came easily, too easily, as natural as breathing, everything he thought he’d sooner strangle himself for than do, do _with Sam_ , from kissing, through sex and then almost to an engagement, and while he was doing it all, when he thought it would sink him, all it did was lull him straight to happiness, as if he lay on the surface of a hypersaline body of water, gently swayed by the waves.

"What really got me?" Sam presses on, "what I couldn't figure out? How the hell you were able to fake it for so long, and so well, that I actually believed Karen felt the same way about me?"

Dean's eyes go wide at that, even though Sam’s watching him like his face is a moving picture. His throat involuntarily chokes the lie his answer would have been away to nothing, and it’s more than enough to damn him for at least half an eternity. That one pause is just about all it takes, and Sam breaks eye contact, hanging his head low for a while, eyes closing of their own accord.

"Dean. You didn’t fake shit, right?" he asks, quietly, but it’s more rhetorical than anything.

And Dean thinks that if he wasn't damned before, he sure as hell is now. His voice is the flutter of butterfly wings, too soft, the air barely stirred, unheard. He’s not even sure what the words would have been if he’d managed to get them out properly. His temples start to throb, heart hammering away beneath a pale chest, and he can't even peel his eyes from the floor to look at Sam. It started as a moment, but dragged itself silent into three, then seven, and then it became the answer itself.

"Jesus Christ," Sam finally whispers. He’s not exactly shocked to have it one-hundred percent confirmed, but it still has enough weight to it to take his breath away.

"Dean-" he starts, but his brother becomes a blur in an instant. Dean decides that there isn’t a force in the universe that could keep him in the room after what just went down, but it turns out that there _is_ one, and just the one, in the form of a giant with gentle hands cradling him in and holding him from finalizing his escape by running out the door.

The arms encircling him are warm and heavy, _safe_ , in the way only family can be safe, and in just a few sad seconds of struggle all of his energy is drained away from him, either into Sam or into the floor, leaving him standing spent in the unexpected embrace. His shoulders slump and he leans his cheek into his brother’s chest - there’s nothing else left for him to do - and inhales deep almost involuntarily, because it smells of mint and the Impala and _home_. He’s missed this, he finds himself reminded once again.

"Dean, come on. Seriously," Sam half pleads – half orders, pushing Dean gently towards the bed and away from the door with his own momentum, making him sit on the edge and finally kneeling on the floor between the spread of Dean’s legs while still keeping his hands on his brother’s forearms. It’s both _you’re safe with me_ and _you’re not running from me_ at the same time.

Dean’s gaze is a stubborn, distant thing over Sam’s shoulder.

"Fuck you, Sam," Dean whispers, but it’s a last resort type of curse, without any fervour behind it. His arms are limp under the heat of Sam’s hands, still looking away to the side. He’s waiting for something to happen, but when a moment passes, then a few more of them follow, his brother being patiently quiet, Dean realises with a frown that there’s nothing left between him and Sam, no more convenient curtains of lies and obstructions of truth. 

"Why do you think I let you fuck me last night, Sam?" Dean demands suddenly, not exactly meaning to, but what else is there left for him to do? Is there any more damage he can rack up now that Sam already knows everything?

“Because you feel so deep in it that you didn’t see a reason not to? And you probably thought it would make me feel better?”

It’s more statements than actual questions, and yeah, spot on, Dean thinks, feeling so tired that he almost can't breathe.

"Christ, let me go already," he whines in reply, not caring about his dignity anymore, and drags his arms free of Sam's grip. "Forget it, okay? You were drunk and stupid, and I was just stupid. Let's just hit the sack already, I can’t keep my eyes open anymore."

Sam isn’t too happy about his brother shuffling up the bed, arms and legs slipping away from him like a slithering eel. He’s still numb with attempting to absorb Dean’s confirmation, but not enough to dismiss the need to ask what’s been on his mind for most of the day, since the moment he gave his brother the fruitless once-over in the Impala while the rain was trying to flatten it down.

“Can I-” he tries, but the courage to voice his request fails him halfway. Dean has his legs under the duvet by then, is still sitting up as his face acquires a confused look under the quirked eyebrow. Instead of meeting it, Sam focuses his eyes straight at Dean’s belly and extends a hand, letting it hover in front of it.

He doesn’t miss the sharp intake of breath when Dean figures out what he wants, but a motionless silence follows it, with Sam feeling dead-sure he’s going to get denied what he needs.

There’s a thump-thump sound in his ear, made by the slow dripping of water through the leaf-clogged drain on the roof. The room smells of lavender and Sam wonders briefly where the hell the scent is coming from. The closet, probably, with sachets tucked inside to keep moths away. He waits, patiently. Always patiently with Dean, always, because even with years of trust established, a wild animal is still a wild animal, and will spook and hiss and bite when it deems too hasty a move untrustworthy.

Sam is still sitting on his haunches when Dean slowly starts returning his body to its previous position, out of the covers and sitting on the edge of the bed, with Sam back in the spread of his knees. They would both think their positions and the proximity erotic if not for the cause that brought them in them. Doesn’t make it any less intimate, though.  

Without warning or a breath to brace himself Dean’s lifting his shirt up to his breasts, high enough to expose the entire curve of his belly. It’s Sam’s turn to inhale sharply, and he does, both mesmerised and utterly bewildered by the sight in front of him. He doesn’t look up, but if he did, his gaze would be met with cheeks tinted sweetly pink in embarrassment, and a bottom lip being chewed through. He wouldn’t be able to meet his brother’s eyes from this low, though, because Dean’s head is tilted up as his glare is trying to bore a hole through the ceiling.   

It’s a bump, all right, but not something to be embarrassed of.

It’s nothing the overlarge clothes Dean’s been piling on have been having trouble handling, but now that it’s just _there_ , there for him to see and possibly touch, Sam’s lost. He’s overwhelmed, with something akin to excitement budding at his depths, but hesitant, more than aware it’s still Dean he’s kneeling in front of, and that if he starts gushing about it his brother probably wouldn’t be able to resist kicking him in the nuts.

His hand finds itself in its own time frame as he’s moving it, all slow-motion-like, as if the air suddenly became viscous.

When it finally finds its destination, right onto the taut skin of Dean’s stomach, his mouth opens slightly and he’s in _awe_. Because he has more than enough imagination to picture the baby that’s in there. His. And Dean’s. Theirs. Living warmth made up of love and sacrifice, and Sam’s chest feels like it might rapture. The happiness he’s feeling was paid with agony, he remembers that, with their very own heartsblood spilling itself from them at different periods and for different reasons – Dean’s because he had to lie and deceive, Sam’s when he realised he’s been lied to and deceived, but it finally feels like there was a reason for all that, a cause, and it becomes something he now knows with certainty they can get past.

"It’s a girl, Sammy," Dean whispers, so low that Sam nearly doesn’t catch it, but he does, and it almost knocks him over.

He looks up, eyes wide and wild and searching his brother’s face, as if there’s more he could be told if he just stares hard enough, but there is, there _is_ , when Dean says: “and I thought, Mary?” 

Sam’s always been the crying type, never the one to agree with the knuckleheaded alpha-male logic that it’s a weakness, flaunting his tears proudly in his father’s face when he was a kid, letting the gruff man see exactly the damage his bursts of selfishness did to him and getting to the man like no one ever could, his mother included.

Dean has a different viewpoint; most of his life he’d been able to hold back until someone was actually dead or dying on the ground. Pregnancy wreaked havoc through him, though, and nowadays not finding his favourite crackers at the store can almost do the trick.

So Dean’s body is pretty much on the same page as Sam’s at the moment, cheeks and chins thoroughly wet as if a dam is breaking in both of them, without them even realising that it’s about to. Sam’s sobbing freely as he braves leaning his body into Dean’s and burying his face into the front of his belly, arms going around his brother’s sides and his back, holding tight. Dean’s doing that ‘maybe if I tilt my head back and stare at the ceiling wide-eyed the tears will stop’ type of thing, but it’s not getting him anywhere.

Sam’s inhaling his brother’s scent, and it’s warm, smelling of soap and comfort, as he feels Dean’s shaky fingers slip into his hair, warily at first, since it’s been weeks since Sam allowed himself to be touched, but with intent after a while, gripping and holding and leaning his entire body into his brother’s giant one, closing the last of the small gaps between them, and it’s _good_.

Both of them needed this.

_God,_ how badly they needed the comfort, reassurance, and sense of unity that’s been missing since the moment Karen opened her mouth and transformed herself into Dean again. Neither of them was ever too good at conversation, even with Sam’s Let’s Talk About It inclinations, too much of their grunting father in them to overcome, but they found their best way of communicating with each other long ago, with soothing caresses or angry fist, whichever the occasion called for. 

“A _daughter_ ,” Sam mumbles out, tastes the word, feels its weight, but realises that it’s not exactly an answer to Dean’s question. He adds “Mary,” quieter, with finality; an agreement.

Dean only sighs in reply.

The silence that follows is a comfortable one, for a while at least, even with all the touching that’s going on since it’s not exactly like they’re breaking new ground there, but it becomes a buzzing thing when Sam’s brain kicks it into high gear, hauling itself from blank straight into overdrive without a step in between.

He peels himself reluctantly away from Dean’s heat and softness before things get too awkward, and also because he needs to be looking at his brother’s face for the next part. He swipes his sleeve over his cheeks to dry the last of the tears, hoping that what needs to be said doesn’t break the new, shaky foundations they’ve just laid down.

“We gotta get off the road,” he says, keeping his voice neutral as he looks up at his brother. “Settle somewhere,” he adds, and there’s a bit of a challenge in that. He’s not sure where his brother is at mentally on the subject of child-rearing, he hadn’t had enough time to ponder at it since he’d only found out what pickle they’re in this very afternoon, but he’s more than prepared to fight Dean on it in case his brother plans on implementing John Winchester’s the-road-is-our-home method.

He knows full well that the thought of settling down is one that always made his brother’s blood cool and curdle. Suburbia is death of the wrong kind for Dean Winchester, a blaze of glory being the destiny he decided for himself, but that better not be so anymore.

“I’m not gonna have a little girl live the life we did,” Sam pleads in that ‘please don’t fight me on this so that I don’t have to throttle you’ voice, trying his damnedest not to allow hostility into the statement.

Dean’s eyes are now actually holding an entertained glimmer, and Sam’s not entirely certain why that might be happening. Sure, he’s glad Dean’s not bristling at the idea of abandoning their current lifestyle, but he gets really confused when one corner of his brother’s lips twitches up into a half-smile.    

“Sioux Falls,” Dean says, and _oh_ , that explains it. Dean’s had months to think about it, and he’s obviously done more than enough of it to reach that decision, and Sam’s shoulders slump in relief now that he knows the plain wasn’t to just wing it as he feared. His face says it all about the choice of location, though, a mix of dislike and dismay, and Dean reads it like a book. 

 “I’m not too keen on becoming a South Dakotan either, but we gotta stay near Bobby. He’s the only family other than us she’s gonna have,” Dean says as his hands creeps over his stomach in a protective manner, it not even seeming like a voluntary action, more pure instinct than anything else.   

And yeah, put like that Sioux Falls makes perfect sense. In fact, it _is_ perfect.

They’ve made some friends over the years, a few real close ones, but Bobby is the only one that’s truly _family_. And they know that the old man feels the same way about them. Hell, they’re probably the only ones he’s got like that, the only ones he’s allowed himself to get attached to, and he’s been subtly mother-henning them since the day they first walked through his door. Him and their dad made probably the weirdest parental unit anyone’s ever had, since most little boys get taught how to play ball instead of how to twirl Balisongs, but Bobby’s has always been the safest haven of their lives. 

Singer’s Salvage isn’t exactly a childproofed place, or one that even _could_ be entirely childproofed, and Bobby is the furthest thing away from conventional grandpa material, but neither Sam nor Dean can imagine the man being anything other than happy and committed once he gets the news that there’s another Winchester on the way. A baby girl at that. Even with all the gritty details surrounding her conception that will bring red to everyone’s cheeks when that particular conversation will be had.

There’s also that convenient fact that he’s been trying to make them set up a base of their own in a flat he owns near the city centre, which they both always found too big and on too busy a street for two people who often come back from jobs covered in blood and guts. And besides, Sam’s heard his brother say that the open road is all they need for far too many times to think he could change his mind, so he never bothered with the idea, despite occasionally seeing its appeal.

Now, though, that place sure as hell will come in handy.

Bobby never approved of them living out of a car, especially not when Dean was alone while Sam was at Stanford and John was doing his own thing; he’s a different type of hunter, one that needed a permanent residence - that’s how he spontaneously became the self-appointed base of the region in the first place. Not wanting to stay in one spot for too long was the genuine reason they’ve always been declining the older man’s offer; it was never about it being too big of a gift.

Hunting is a lucrative business, though it never shows judging by the people doing it, since none of them are actually insane enough to be in it for the _money_ , what with revenge most often being everyone’s ‘sound’ reason. Hunting can pay for itself, but usually whatever artefact or moneybag is found at haunted sights ends up being eyebrow raising and traceable, thus a hassle to sell or pass on. Credit cards frauds are a much easier option when compared to the idea of being hunted down by keen museum curators deeming them all to be the next Indiana Jones.   

Civilians would also probably lose their heads over the fact that when a hunter stumbles upon a gold bar, the first thing that comes to mind to do with it is to melt it down into special bullets and blades. 

So there _is_ money, even though Dad taught them to only ever tap into the stash when the amount they required passes five digits, like when a new car is needed. Or, Sam thinks, when there’s a baby on the way and a three bedroom flat needs renovating and refurbishing. Most of the loot they’ve accumulated over the years is it tucked away in a safe at Bobby’s, and once they get over with the hassle of transforming it all into cash, there’ll be more than enough for whatever they could want or need.

Same goes for Bobby, and that’s why the man can easily afford to give away a flat that would get him hundreds of thousands of dollars if he ever bothered himself with selling it.

Still, the boys have kept up their hustling game and paying for everything with fake credit cards even though there was no actual need for it during the last couple of months. Karen managed to hustle a whole lot more than Dean could, what with no one expecting a girl to be _that_ good, and Sam not hunting as much while searching for Dean, then not hunting at all once he found him, led to cash being amassed to quite a comfortable sum.

It’s a good start, and even though funding is not the most important thing in the world, Sam thinks that life will definitely be easier knowing that they won’t have to worry about it.

 “We leave for Bobby’s at first light?” he asks as he finally gets up from the floor, but Dean shakes his head no. “Would be rude to Ellen and Jo. We’ll hit the road after we’ve had breakfast,” Dean answers, and that settles it.

When Dean turns his back on him for the final time that night and scoots back up the bed, everything but the top of his head disappearing under the comforter, Sam is surprised to find himself disappointed at the sudden loss. It’s him that’s been keeping Dean at arm’s length during these last couple of weeks, and there’s nothing strange or spiteful in Dean’s behaviour, but the events of last night brought back to life the circuitry associated with being physically close to the small body in front of him, and he suddenly finds himself _wanting_ again, even though up until only twenty-four hours ago the very memories of it made his stomach do uncomfortable flips whenever they flashed before his eyes.

He knows that he’s emotionally compromised by having sex with Dean last night and finding out about the baby, and that there _was_ a reason for all of it being wrong, something about blood and sin and _brother_ , but now he only vaguely remembers the details. It’s baffling, how fast things can change.    

He goes about his own bedtime routine, and by the time he finishes brushing his teeth, just from the sound of Dean’s breathing he can tell that his brother is already fast asleep, not just faking it like most nights.

The exhaustment visibly leaving his body and the innocence of his mouth hanging open slightly in a pout draws a smile on Sam’s face, a soft and real one for the first time in a long time, making it the moment when he figures out that he’s actually happy about all of this. He wasn’t sure how he felt about becoming the father of his brother’s baby in the beginning, seeing only complications and the weight of responsibility on his shoulders, but as he watches Dean slip into the land of dreams he realises that everything he loves is still right there.

It’s far from ideal, it’s Winchester-style complicated, but it’s there, and there to stay.         

He does nothing to close the distance between their bodies as he slips under the covers, but even though he doesn’t have the last night’s excuse of being drunk as a fiddler to cover for him, he admits to himself that he _wants to_. Nothing more than to sleep with that small, warm body in his arms as they’ve been doing for months prior to the grand revelation, but the point, again, is that he wants to.

He’s overwhelmed, bombarded by too much emotion in too little time; he knows this. He’s still confused about his feelings even though the air has somewhat cleared between the two of them, not of everything, but certainly of blame and the feeling of betrayal on Sam’s side. There’s a lot left to adjust to, but he’ll just have to take it one step at a time.

He slowly pulls on the cord of the night lamp, making it let out only the gentlest of clicks, and then there’s nothing left in the room but darkness and sleep.


	3. Chapter 3

Bobby always wanted kids, but Karen’s only pregnancy in a decade of marriage turning into a miscarriage at three and a half months put an end to that dream, at least up until John Winchester realized that he fell in love with his two little boys and started using him as a daycare center.

It was in Bobby’s lap that Sammy’s love for lore and knowledge sparked up; while the old man was doing research for hunters in the field Sam would read through tome after tome of writing that was just tame enough to still pass as fairy-tale material. The day Sam found out about all the bad things going bump in the night, he also learned that the prettily illustrated woodland spirits known for nurturing wounded and orphaned animals were real as well, so at least for him, unlike for the rest of the Winchesters, taking off the veil was bittersweet instead of just bitter.

It was Bobby that first got Dean elbows deep in grease under a car’s hood and showed him just how awesome machinery is. It’s sad and ironic, really, that John taught his son only how to hunt and hustle while Bobby was the one who taught him how to make money the hard and earnest way. And it paid off, really came in handy back when Sam was still a kid and they needed all the money they could scramble if a hunt grounded them in one small town for too long.   

His door is the one the boys always come knocking on when there’s serious trouble going down, or when they just need some downtime and good company. Research, restocking, repairing, unwinding, a homebase; that and a lot more is what Singer’s Salvage means to the Winchesters.

Their daddy may have gotten a ban from darkening Bobby’s doorstep, but the boys could bring down an apocalypse on everyone’s heads and, god help him, he’d still be forgiving them.

When Sam called a week ago and told him he’s found Dean, Bobby was just about ready to burst into tears like he hadn’t in a long while, right before the story started getting all mumbled and vague and he realised Sam was trying to pull some kind of wool over his eyes.

At least Dean was alive, Bobby consoled himself as he grumbled into his beer after Sam hung up. Like Ellen, he could tell just from Sammy’s voice that that part was certain. It didn’t seem like the older brother was in any sort of mortal peril either. But being told that he couldn’t see the boy or contact him in any way made Bobby frown so bad that it gave him another set of wrinkles.

There’s always _something_ going on with the boys, like nothing they’ve ever touched managed to maintain a clean edge.

So Bobby waited. Patiently. He knew that Sam was painfully aware he’d left him hanging, and he also knew that the boy wouldn’t keep him like that for long. Too long, at least.

And now, after over a week of waiting that made Bobby want to pull his nails out with rusty pliers, they finally showed up at his doorstep and were under his roof, both Sam and that pretty girl of his, and Bobby can tell from Sam’s hunched shoulders that the full story is about to be told.

The day is a fine one, probably one of the last ones of its kind before the rains come back with a vengeance. The sunshine the house is bathing in is lighting up all the stray dust-bunnies, but at least the dogs will get one more day of hanging out in the backyard before the weather puts them all under house arrest.

Chestnut and Biscuit, the new arrivals Bobby’s fostering for the local animal shelter trot behind him as he’s ushering Sam and Karen into his kitchen instead of the sitting room, because the chilli he’s got on the stove still needs stirring.

The dogs take their usual position under the window as the girl plops down on the chair nearest to the pot after she gives it a good stir herself while inhaling appreciatively. She doesn’t seem particularly restless, but she’s still back up on her feet as soon as she spots the bag of lemons sitting on the counter and puts herself to work at making lemonade while Sam and Bobby are going through the ‘how’ve you’ve been-s’.    

It takes a little while, but Sam eventually gets down to business, once the well of small talk finally dries out; after it’s been established that, yes, all the dogs are doing good, and, yes, he’s fixed up the leak in the roof after that storm took out a few tiles, and, no, there’s nothing that he needs helping out with, thank you very much.

“Dean came across a Trickster,” Sam finally starts, his voice coming across as strained, like he’s speaking over a mouth filled with gravel as he adds: “back in Escanaba.”

Bobby’s eyes narrow at the mention of a demigod, but he nods his head after a bit and hums softly, hunter’s mind already back in gear, and it certainly sounds as a plausible explanation for all the weird that has surrounded Dean’s disappearance.

Tricksters are powerful enough, mischievous but not wicked, even though they most often come off as exactly that. Making a bet with Dean that if he didn’t dance to his tune, Sammy would end up in a body bag sounds _exactly_ like that, as Sam keeps telling the details of the story, but Bobby knows that the deeper one reads into the lore, the more one can see that the victims most often benefit from dealing with them, if they’ve played their cards right. He hopes Dean did. If only Sam would stop focusing on shuffling his feet under the table and _tell him already._      

“So why’s he not here if he’d won it? And what was the damned bet, anyway?” Bobby asks, impatience seeping through the syllables. He’d be cussing his head off at the boy for stalling so damn much, if only his girl wasn’t standing at his kitchen counter, making herself at home with squeezing out his lemons, acting like the vein-bursting conversation behind her wasn’t happening.

They’ve visited a couple of times and he feels like he knows her a bit, knows that she’s smart and nice and good to Sam, good _for_ him, most importantly, because someone’s had to keep the boy sane during the last year and she’s obviously the one that’d done that job, so Bobby really doesn’t want to go yelling at the boy right in front of her. 

But he’s about to lose it if the idjit across the table doesn’t stop looking so red-faced and starts answering him soon, manners and good appearances be damned.  

Funny enough, it’s the girl that comes to both their rescue and breaks the silence. Female intuition or something, must be.

“Bobby,” she calls out to him after taking the first sip of her lemonade, satisfied finally that the sugar at the bottom had completely dissolved, and he turns to her with eyebrows raised and an expression that he hopes says ‘yes, dear?’ and not ‘what the hell do you want?’

One of her arms is crossed in front of her while the other one is propped at the elbow on her hip, hand raised in the air as she’s holding her glass, her fingers tapping at it in an irregular rhythm. Bobby might be putting out his friendliest face, but _her_ expression looks as sour as the juice she’s holding. Seriously, what is going on?

She’s looking uncomfortable as hell now that Bobby’s actually paying attention to her, like she wants to jump out of her own skin, he judges, and there’s something so ominous about her frown that he’d be willing to bet his good Scotch that he’s gonna be feeling the same way pretty darn soon.

“I’m right here, Bobby,” she says, gravely, and starts staring at him pointedly. Bobby’s face goes from friendly to outright baffled, and he doesn’t get it at first.

One of those buzzing silences ensues as he starts awkwardly looking back and forth between the two youths while they’re stubbornly waiting for him to connect the dots without giving away any further clues. Sam is suddenly very interested in the hem of his shirt, and the girl’s turned her head away and is staring out the window. ‘S a bit rude from both of them, acting that way, Bobby thinks, and he’s about to say so, when it finally hits him.

The moment it all clicks in place is a painful one, his eyes going wide as he jerks away from the table and nearly sends his chair toppling backwards, but his brain’s wiped at that point and he doesn’t know _what_ to say or do from there on.  

“Oh, _hell_ ,” he groans out after a minute of shell-shocked silence, and by then everything’s a lot more clearer. It explains everything, _everything,_ from Sam’s awkward shuffling to why Dean’s still mysteriously ‘gone’. And what the details of that bet must have been Bobby doesn’t need saying, because he’s _heard plenty_ during the last nights these two were staying under his roof. It’s _horrible,_ but it makes _sense,_ since that kind of twisted stuff is right up a Tricksters alley. It’s not evil, at least not by hunter standards, as strange as that would sound to a civilian, but it’s still plenty twisted.

Sammy next to him breathes out a sigh heavy enough to flatten a boulder.

The girl is blushing when Bobby’s eyes find her again. Or, apparently, _Dean_ is blushing. And yeah, okay, that _does_ look like Dean glaring at him, Bobby thinks under the scrutiny of a gaze of the small person/might-be-adopted-son currently stirring his chilli.

You’d think the Winchesters have had their fair share of tragedies and fate would let them rest, but _no_. It only hits Bobby just how bad this is when he finds himself thankful for their old man not being alive to see it. The brothers had to _sleep with each other,_ for chrissake!  

“How do we turn you back?” he asks quietly, voice serious, all business. It’s the first and most natural thing that comes to his mind after the ‘i’ word has branded itself snugly onto his retinas. They probably have no clue, now that he thinks about it, or else they wouldn’t be here before the job was done. Tricksters don’t usually botch their deals, but anything’s possible in their world.

“We don’t. Not yet, at least,” the girl – Dean, _sweet mother of God_ – tells him, and Bobby’s about to protest with squinting eyes that the Dean he knows would be jumping at the first opportunity to get his body back. The girl-boy sees it before it comes at him though, he can read it in the old man’s face and he figures that it’ll be easier to show than tell.

Bobby watches frozen as slender female hands put a half-drunk glass of lemonade back on the counter and lift a few layers of shirts, exposing the belly. There’s not enough of an angle for Bobby to notice the roundness immediately, focuses instead on holding back a blush because seriously, _what the hell_ _is going on_ \- until it hits him, what he’s being shown, and _holy mother of god,_ the boy is pregnant.

Bobby’s brain is back to wordlessly fried, his mouth hanging agape as Dean tucks his shirts back down.

Dean’s back at sipping the rest of his lemonade while he waits out the ‘error’ message that’s flashing red behind the old man’s eyes. Once Bobby’s face settles on an expression, choosing panicked confusion as an appropriate one for this occasion, Dean gives it his best to look cool and calm when he asks, “could we please get the keys for the flat in the city?”

There, a deterrent. He’s thrown the man a rope and now he can only hope Bobby doesn’t use it to hang himself with it.

“Sure thing,” Bobby replies after his brain fuzzily processes that Dean asked him a question.

“And we’ll need the stuff from the safe, too” the girl – again, Dean, _sweet Jesus_ – adds, and Bobby can’t do much more than nod, because yeah, babies are an expensive sport, or so the rumours say.

“You wanna be Uncle or Grandpa?” Sam speaks up after Bobby’s almost forgotten he’s even there. He asks the question hesitantly, obviously uncertain whether the man would want to be either, but Bobby’s stomach does a flip and his heart does a double beat as he shoots the silly boy one of those _give a man a warning_ type of looks, accompanied with the head shaking and the beginnings of a smile. The question completely tongue-ties him though, as his eyes drop back to Dean’s covered stomach, just staring silently in both shock and awe.

“Think about it,” Dean finally tells him after he downs his juice and puts his dirty glass into the dishwasher. As he’s about to exit the kitchen, he walks past Bobby and puts a hand on the man’s shoulder, giving it a gentle, reassuring squeeze.

“I need a nap,” he adds, and then he’s out the door.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

“We need to get you proper papers,” Sam says once they go up the stairs and into the guest bedroom.

‘Proper’ meaning the _really_ good kind of forgeries in the Winchester dictionary.

The room has two singles crammed into too narrow a space, the beds separated just enough for Bobby to place the smallest of nightstands he could find between them. If you wanted to touch the person sleeping in the other bed, you wouldn’t even have to shuffle closer to the edge of your own. The walls around them are painted in a warm yellow tone, a remnant of Bobby’s late wife’s taste, and it would have been a baby room if fate had decided to be kinder to the Singer family.

Sam drops their duffels on the floor and sits on the corner of one of the beds, leaning back on his elbows, displaying the most open body language he’s able to pull off. Dean’s still walking around with shoulders drawn tight, like someone might stomp on him if he doesn’t make himself as small as possible, and it hurts Sam to see it, but not as much as knowing that it’s his fault Dean’s like that in the first place.

“Yeah. I’m nobody at the moment,” Dean replies, and there’s a harsh bitterness to it that’s aimed at the situation itself. Their father’s name was something he’s always worn like a badge of honour, and not having it anymore really grates, makes him feel like a piece of driftwood. It’s a bit vain, because what’s in a name, but it’s been one of his anchorages and those are not a good thing to lose.

Sam’s face acquires a pinched look; he understands, sympathises, and knows what the remedy is, but a conversation like this one is a minefield whereas his brother is concerned. What he’s about to suggest feels kinda backwards, _truly_ traditionalist, because he knows that Dean would never ask Sam to give him his name, even though he’d only be giving it _back_ ; he knows full well that he’s gonna have to offer.  

“Look,” he starts, but there’s a little pause there as he waits for Dean to turn and actually look at him. When he does, Sam takes in a big breath to steady himself and says: “life’s gonna be a whole lot easier for everyone if we get papers that say you used to have Singer as a maiden name, and we put down Winchester as your married one.”

There. He’s said it. Now let the chips fall where they may.

Dean’s eyes go wider for a fraction as a first reaction, but his face soon acquires a distant look. He turns away from Sam and goes to stand by the window. Sam watches something about him become pensive and demure, and then it gets even weirder when one corner of his mouth lifts itself into a half-smile that looks like a reaction to something incredibly ironic.

It must be a reaction to what Sam’s said, because the view Dean’s got in front of his is an ugly one, no matter how much he loves this place, just piles and piles of dead cars everywhere that Bobby’s been vowing for years to get rid of.

"I _was_ going to say yes, you know," Dean says, the statement ringing with an almost confessional tone. His hands are on the windowpane, his eyes are focused far off to the right on a ‘77 Camaro that could still be transformed into a thing of beauty if someone chose to put some time and effort into it. He’s trying to convey a casual air that falls somewhere short. Sam knows these waters, knows he needs to tread carefully, but hell if he knows how to.

"Yes to what?" he asks when Dean fails to supply a clarification.

"To marry you before, genius.”

Sam had a vague hunch about that being so, though he called it ‘hope’ at the time, and it seems that he was correct. He turns to stare at his brother, surprise painted on his face at what Dean’s confessing, and he asks: "seriously?"

"Yup. Doctor did an ultrasound, told me I was looking at a baby girl, and I got to really thinking about it," Dean says, voice thickened with far more melancholy than the occasion calls for, as if it’s more a wistful dream he’s talking than their current reality.  

Sam reigns in his immediate reaction, bites down an answer and holds back a smile that really wants to spring up on his face. He’s not daring to interrupt Dean in any way, because he can't really believe his brother is standing there awake and sober and telling him this.

Dean doesn't seem to mind not getting a response, though. He actually seems disinclined to stop the flow of words Sam never expected to hear. "I knew I couldn't do it for me. Not when I was already lying to you about everything, but for _her_ …" Dean says, then pauses as a shadow drapes itself over his face, and now Sam _really_ feels like he’s on the listening end in a confessional booth. "I figured if I said yes, we could really do right by her."

"We still will, you know," Sam whispers, and it’s so soft that he’s surprised at the hopefulness in his own voice. Dean hears it, acknowledges it with a quick glance in his direction. This right here is more negotiation than anything else. It’s certainly not a proposal, even though it’s marriage itself that they’re negotiating. There’ll be no bells ringing for them if Dean accepts, only papers with ink already dried on them, proving to the world something that never truly happened.

"Actually, now that we’re talking about this, I'm pretty sure that's what did it," Dean says with a sigh.

"Did what?" Sam asks, confused again, because Dean's mind is all hairpin twists and unexpected turns that are, even for his own brother most often near impossible to follow.

"Finally won me the bet. I'm not sure how, technically. The son of a bitch never bothered explaining it, but I think that was the secret catch."

"Secret catch?" Sam asks, pretty sure that’s the first time he’s hearing about it. Dean explained that he had to make Sam fall in love with him, and that made perfect, painful sense, because he sure as hell fell hard. So much so that it derailed him off the path of an avenger and set him on a course for the future, for the first time in what felt like forever since Jess burned away in front of his eyes. So yeah, he was, and probably still is a little, although he'd sooner kneecap himself that go there any time this century. If he did, he’d have to figure out if was with the idea and the mirage of a woman bearing his child that he’s in love with, or if it’s actually with his brother. 

Now that he’s thinking about it, though, he remembers that Dean never actually said that there was another catch, and he can't decide if that’s supposed to be pissing him off or not.

"Lighten up, dude," Dean pre-emptively thwarts that train of thought. "Like hell was I admitting any of that shit before,” he says, even though Sam can't figure out why he's admitting it _now_. "Anyway, you wouldn't have wanted to hear it," he adds, and it’s a little sad, a little bitter, because he knows he wouldn’t have been able to admit it to Sam even now if he hadn’t already found out about the baby. 

And it’s too goddamn true, Sam thinks, and he feels that kidney-kick of remorse that’s been plaguing him since yesterday morning. All the ways he let Dean down in such a short amount of time, a mere few weeks, as he was too wrapped up in his own empty ache and fury to see his brother standing right there by his side, hurting and trying to make it right.

And worst of all, Dean forgiving him everything without one bad word aimed his way. If the law of equal exchange was applied, it’d be the rack that Sam would be headed for, it’d be chaining to a cliff and having birds eat him alive that would serve as proper payment for the sin that _his_ betrayal was, but Dean’s just letting it all slide like it was nothing.

As much as Sam would love to launch himself into self-disdain and wallowing about it, he knows that now is not the time for it. Not when they’re finally talking about it, and there’s certainly plans to be made.

“So…what do you say?” Sam asks, and it’s hesitant, cautious.

“You realise that this is the second time you’re asking me to marry you, Sammy?” Dean says in a voice that starts off as teasing, but takes a wrong turn midway and ends up as chary. He’s trying to mask the vulnerability with that cocksure grin of his that serves as his strongest shield whenever he’s cornered into talking about his feelings.     

Sam’s response is a smile, a small and sad one, because there _is_ something biting about all of this, no matter how one looks at it.

But he also knows himself well enough to know that he wouldn’t change any of it. He’s learned long ago to count his blessings, and even though there must be something broken in him as a result of the build-up of too much damage he’s taken over the years, he thinks that even this bleak excuse for something that should be outright ceremonial is better than the alternative of not having his brother back. There’s not an atom in his body that would choose Karen as she was over knowing that Dean is safe and having him with him, even with all the complications of their current situation.

“Fine,” Dean sighs after a while, breaking Sam’s train of thought, and he looks up, actually kinda startled to find that there won’t be a struggle over this.

“You’re right. Life will be easier if I’m married while pregnant. Though, we first gotta ask Bobby if he actually wants me being his estranged relation that made a comeback.” 

“I’m pretty sure he’ll insist that we write you down as his daughter,” Sam says, and that thought is warm enough to put matching grins on their faces.

Because yeah, Bobby will. It’ll make him a proper, ‘legal’ grandfather, and they can’t see the man wanting to be anything less, no matter how tongue-tied shock had him back in the kitchen.

“Get on it, then. Call who you gotta. But go outside, because I _really_ need that nap.”

Sam smiles and obeys, grateful that this went down so well, and leaves Dean alone to change and sleep.

When he gets back downstairs and he tells Bobby the news of their decision, the grizzled old man in turn starts blaming the dust-bunnies in the library for reproducing and bringing down an allergy on him that’s the cause of his eyes watering.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

They can’t help but treat the preparation for the baby as they would treat a job.

It’s sort of ridiculous, the rare occasions when hunters adapt their skillset to real world situations, but it makes sense. There’s a ton of research to be done, there’s an area to prep, supplies to be hauled, etcetera. It’s not that painting sigils and wards over haunted places can exactly be equated to picking out wallpaper for their new home, but they’re stubborn enough to treat it as such. There’ll even be interviewing at one point, once the time comes to start looking for a babysitter.

They’re men hardwired for speed and efficiency, habits of soldiers drilled into them from before they could even comprehend that it was happening, and now everyone’s just happy that they’ve got tasks and lists to check off as they wait for Dean’s due date. They probably would have gone mad if all they had to do was twiddling their thumbs.  

The space between Sam and Dean loses the Jersey barrier as the days start passing by, becoming warm and familiar again, and it becomes all but impossible not to touch.

Their communication is back online, now that Sam’s making conscious effort to adapt to the brother/mother-of-my-child hybrid that Dean currently is. They’re spending a lot more time in the car together, and that, combined with the fact that Bobby’s guestroom has them sleeping so close to one another that they might as well be sharing a king, leads to proximity that shuffles instincts and patterns from brotherly to not-so-brotherly without them even knowing it’s happening.

Barely one week ago Sam’s reaction was to cringe in discomfort when his fingers accidentally brushed with Dean’s soft, slender ones, but now embers of the fire that his feelings for Karen were are starting to light up again, occasionally turning into proper licks of flame as every accidental touch makes it harder not to think how it used to be between them. 

It doesn’t take a long while for accidental touches to turn into aloofly unaware but deliberate ones, and now Sam feels soft presses of Dean's fingers against the nape of his neck, the small of his back, the edge of his thigh, on an almost daily basis.

They keep fanning a flame Sam thought had died a painful death when Dean confessed, and they’re dragging thoughts out about his brother he’d never thought he'd have again, those slipping past every one of his attempts to keep them down.

Because, as Sam is horrified to realize, it's a really small jump to get from thinking to wanting, especially nowadays when Dean finally started to smile at him again.

Sam is no fool to think that Dean not faking it before means that Dean still feels the same way after he was released from the Trickster’s hold, though.

There's still that one drunken fuck behind them that happened _after_ he confessed, and Sam doesn't know what to think about it. He knows that he feels guilty as hell for it, but he doesn’t know what it _meant._ It could be that Dean let him climb on top of him because he missed him, missed Sam touching him and being inside of him, but it’s also a safe bet that he let it happen in the desperate-times-desperate-measures kind of spirit. At the moment, Dean doesn’t seem inclined to be talking about it, and if it’s a purely one-sided thing, Sam going to make damned sure he gives Dean only those parts of himself that are actually wanted.

He is still his brother; it’ll always be the foundation of what they are, no matter what the future brings on.

He just wishes he _knew._ He doesn't dare ask, but it doesn't stop him from wondering. They are rebellious thoughts, vivid, haunting, and they grow sharper every day.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

After two more weeks and a hunt not involving monsters but instead trying to find a kitchen they both agreed on, Sam realises that he won’t be able to let it go without knowing. Once Dean figured out that he’s been forgiven for something only an asshole like Sam would take as a transgression, he brings back the smiles and the laughter and their usual banter, as well as the reminder that there’s not a place in the world that’s quite as comfortable as being by his brother’s side.

Sam knows that it’s not a good idea to poke at that particular sleeping beast, especially when he’s got no insight on how Dean feels about him anymore.

He’s been trying hard to lock his urges down in the most secure vault in his soul, but these are the type of lines with minds of their own, and they demand being crossed with fervour on a daily basis. Sam tried to act like it’s a done thing, layering regret right on the top of everything that he should consider wrong but doesn’t, and he figured he'll convince himself with the lie if he just keeps at it for long enough. Life is too busy most of the time to even allow him time to go there, but every moment he has to spare is spent with the image of Dean in his mind as he is in his original form, and the picture is not getting prettier with each passing day, _goddamn_ it.

The usual Winchester method of coping has failed him at every turn. He still tries, god help him, for both their sakes, but when the wall of denial and self-restraint finally crumbles, it catches him off guard, though he should have seen it coming from miles away.

With each new morning the weather gets bleaker, the sky becoming a permanent flat grey plane looming over their heads. It’s that time of year when the forecasts start feeling like guesswork, and that shining sun the weatherman’s been promising for a while now doesn’t pop up for more than an hour a day. The temperature scales are also hitting lower and lower daily maximums, and Sam’s acutely regretting Bobby not being situated in California.

They’re walking out of a Home Depot after looking for some shelving when an old lady they pass beams at Dean’s belly, which he’s no longer trying to hide. He’s still not showing as much as most women do at five and a half months, but he couldn’t hide it any longer if he tried.

Dean smiles back at the woman, his agreeableness coming out of the need not to be rude to anyone now that this is officially their city, even though he’s feeling rather cranky at the moment.

The exchange warms Sam, though, and Dean freezes for a short instance when he feels Sam drape an arm over his shoulders and pull him in a bit closer as they walk out the sliding front doors. Sam reigns in the instinct to kiss the top of Dean’s head as well, but just barely. Dean looks up at him, craning his neck and all, then shoots him a questioning look that asks if there might be danger around or something, but when he catches the easy smile on his brother’s face he shrugs and lets his brother keep his arm around him.

It’s a short walk across the parking lot to the Impala, which is feeling slightly bemused with being downgraded from a steed of war to being the pack mule, and the only thing Sam has left in his mind by the time they reach it is _fuck it, let’s just see what happens._  

It’s Tuesday morning, not exactly rush hour, and they’re alone in the parking lot. They can hear the unpleasant hum of the highway from here, and it’s not the best of places, but it’s too late for Sam to change his mind, too late for more retrospect, or for pretty much anything, really, because he's already getting right up in Dean’s personal space.

A cool breeze flows over them, and they’re not dressed warm enough for the weather they’re having, but Sam doesn't spare it much thought as he pulls his brother close.

When their lips meet, it's almost too much at once. It’s finally real and not just a want in his mind, it’s intense and warm and Sam can practically taste the surprise on Dean’s startled lips as he cradles him into the cage of his arms.

Dean lets him have it for a short, perfect while. He lets Sam put a hand under his chin and tilt his head up, lets him lay claim as his hand slides into Dean’s long mane, taking the kiss even deeper as Dean's mouth opens for him and his body goes pliant. Completely sober this time, Sam gorges on the feeling of having Dean back where he belongs. It lasts no more than ten seconds, but Sam feels the total surrender of the small, soft body as it melts against his own, and the sensation brings on wonderment about how it would feel to have Dean in the body he’s supposed to be in melting the same way. Just as good, he thinks, or possibly even better.

He can hardly believe he’s having such thoughts, but there they are, and they make him smile against their kiss. 

Sam knows he's getting carried away when he digs his fingers into the soft flesh of Dean’s hip, as if he wasn't overstepping his boundaries already, but he still groans in frustration when Dean pushes at his chest and forces just enough space between them to break the kiss. Dean's hair is still soft between his fingers, Dean's mouth still so distractingly close, and enough blood has flown away from Sam’s brain that it takes a moment to register that his brother is talking.

“Sam, what the hell?” Dean groans, eyes sharpening away from the dreamy haze they were in a moment ago.

After a beat or two he figures out that Sam doesn’t actually have a response ready for him, at least judging by the sight of his brother just standing there staring at him wide-eyed.

“Dude, seriously,” he grunts out as he gives Sam’s chest another push. It’s a gentle one, unconvincing, as if he’s not actually trying to get away from Sam's hold but wants it to seem that way, and something very close to desperation flashes behind his eyes as his voice drops to a whisper as he says, “you don't want this.”

Sam understands where that’s coming from. He didn’t let on that his feelings were evolving as it was happening, and now the consequence of that is reality crashing back down around him in bits and pieces.

“Shit,” he mutters, untangling his limbs from Dean’s lithe body and taking a step back. Dean's arms drop to his sides, eyes searching and wary, and Sam forces himself to meet them as he says, “I'm sorry. I shouldn't have just jumped you like that without asking.”

The surprise Sam finds in Dean’s face states that that’s not what he thought Sam would be feeling sorry about, and Dean's eyebrows quirk almost involuntarily as his expression starts settling into a bland inquiry. Sam knows it's typical Dean-patented bullshit, and he resents the walls that are coming back up behind his eyes, blocking him off from even the most fleeting glimpse into his brother's thoughts. Sam knows that he’ll have to muster all his forces to charge through it at one point, though the parking lot of Home Depot really doesn’t feel like a good place for it, now that his brain is operational enough again for him to think about it.

He’ll take this slow and gentle at the moment, if Dean will even let it happen, or nor at all.

“What do you think we're doing here?” Dean asks, _demands,_ the words harsh but still somehow void of accusation, as if he’s dealing with someone that’s very confused and disoriented, and Sam would prefer Dean being pissed at him instead of the condescension. When his brother is angry Sam can count on him to be honest, and this version standing in front of him is more guarded than anything else at the moment.

“I think that sort of depends on you,” he tries softly, trying to open a path for a mild discussion, not exactly admitting anything out loud but certainly putting a lot out there. He’s always had to coax things out of Dean, and he knows that overwhelming him is never a good strategy, so he waits for a bit to see if his brother will take mercy on him and give him something to work with on his own. It’s not much that he needs. A mere hint will do. The most miniscule sign that Dean is haunted by the same thoughts as Sam is and hasn't already moved on and past any of the things Sam is suddenly, desperately hoping for.

“You _don't_ want this,” Dean repeats, starts walking away to round the car and get into the passenger seat, but Sam’s right behind him, striding close and then shutting out the physical distance between them once more, having heard just about all he could take.

“I do want this,” he says, making damned sure his voice sounds convincing and definite, making the last of the air between them vibrate from the emotions seeping out of both of them. “I can't get it out of my head, Dean. I can't stop thinking about it. And I’ve tried. Don’t think I haven’t.”

“Sam-“ Dean starts, and just from that one syllable Sam can hear that his voice is about to turn patronising, and it sets his blood to a boil. 

“You've gotta tell me what you want. I need to know if this is just me,” Sam insists, purposely not masking any of the desperation he’s feeling so that he can finally drive the point home.

 A thin silence is the only answer he gets, and it’s a hollow and uncertain one. Dean’s face starts crumbling into remorse and discomfort, and the sight scares the living hell out of Sam. He wants to latch back onto his brother’s body, hold him until all of their mutual pain goes away, but he can’t even convince his words to fall off his lips, let alone make the effort to move again. When Dean finally shatters the quiet with his voice, he shatters Sam's heart right along with it.

“I can't do this,” he says, and what’s worst is that Sam can hear that he means it. “I'm not her, Sammy.” The words feel like a slam of a brick on the back of his head would. “I know I look like her, but I’m not the Karen you've got wrapped up in your head, and I can't pretend to be her for you just because you're lonely.”

"That's not what this is," Sam says urgently, and the words threaten to choke him. Dean’s eyebrows fall into a stern frown, every line of his face sending out the message of just how utterly unconvinced he is.

"Bullshit," Dean says calmly.

In that moment he’s a resolute, impenetrable wall of disbelief, and the bitch of it is that Sam doesn't know how to convince him otherwise. He knows the face Dean’s presented him well enough to know this conversation has been brought to a close. Even if he could become a master of his own words and craft logic into something that would have the ability to make Dean see sense and reason, Dean wouldn't hear him.

The only option he’s got left is to retreat without causing any more damage, then to regroup while he licks his wounds. He beats down the urge to growl his frustrations across the parking lot as Dean lowers himself into the car and closes the passenger door.

He might have been too hasty, Sam admits to himself later during the drive, while Dean’s sitting like a small ghost beside him. It’s been only a short while since he’s figured it all out for himself, after all, and he can’t expect Dean to read his mind as if it’s an open book.

The obvious next step is patience, and then making Dean see it, too.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

Against all odds, Sam lets them have a couple of days of peace.

Miraculously, after the kiss, Dean still allowed Sam to accompany him to the doctor’s office, and Sam rode that high like a man possessed. The joy of having seen his daughter, even though it was only fuzzy shapes on a low-res screen, was potent enough a drug to even lend him enough strength to win the battle for having the baby-room painted pink with unicorns drawn prancing across the walls.

Sure, both of them know that real-life unicorns are dickheads, but they’re not ruining them for her; Sam’s dead set on that.

The good mood lasts for a while, but the time that passes by keeps fraying his nerves and Sam eventually loses the battle with his own will and cranks up the moping. 

Both of them are sleeping for crap - Dean because Mary decided scheduling her swimming practices right when he gets into bed, and Sam from not shutting his mind out and overanalysing things instead of lulling himself to sleep. The atmosphere slowly turns from nice into uncertain, and Dean starts wondering how long it will take before something gives.

Sam’s taken to staring at him again. Part of that time his eyes are glued to Dean’s belly as if it was a homing beacon, and Dean can’t find it within himself to begrudge him that. Sam is the baby’s father, but he’s also become watchful of him in a way that makes a hell of a lot more sense since his brother kissed him on that windy parking lot.

Dean hates how bad he wants to give into it. Hates that he can't just accept it for what it seems, but he knows that things are _never_ as they seem on the surface with the Winchesters, so he doesn’t allow himself to even dream about it. He’s royally pissed that even this type of crap had to be thrown his way. It’s an added weight to his back, the dreadful certainty that it's only a matter of time until Sam comes to his senses and realises that Dean was right about him not actually wanting further romantic entanglement with his own brother.

But before that happens, he’s gotta make sure he doesn’t slip up and let his brother know that what he only _thinks_ he’s feeling about Dean is exactly how Dean feels about _him_.

Their Saturday was a busy one; Bobby got two calls from hunters needing help with research, so instead of barbecuing and relaxing as was planned, all three of them spent the day craning their necks over ancient tomes. Night had settled long ago once they finally figured out that one of the guys was dealing with a rabid bannik and the other with a sylph, and by then all they wanted was to drag themselves to bed and sleep until the clocks marked noon tomorrow.

They crawled upstairs and into bed, but sleep just doesn’t come.

Dean keeps faking it, though, mule-headedly, even when Sam rustles his bedcovers in frustration and gets up to move closer. The dip in the mattress behind Dean’s back is sudden but expected as Sam lowers himself to sit on the edge of his bed.

"I know you're not asleep," Sam barely whispers, but his voice is still an overpowering boom in the otherwise silent room.

"Scoot your ass over," he commands, and Dean gives up the pretence, though he still exhibits his discomfort by groaning his protest as he shifts to make room. There’s only so much of it to be made, what with the beds being so small, and their limbs still end up touching. Dean doesn't say it out loud, but he's fully prepared to kick Sam right to the floor if he tries initiating any snuggling.

Sam’s sitting up propped against the headboard as he waits for Dean to roll over on his back so that they could sort-of see each other through the cloud-veiled moonlight. 

They should be fast asleep by now; it’s almost the middle of the night, and since Sam chose these hours to be the ones when he unloads his crap on Dean’s head, he’s gonna have to be the one to do the work himself. Dean keeps his mouth drawn in a tight line of frustration and sleepy annoyance, hell bent on not helping or easing Sam through this.

"You don't get to tell me what I want," his pissy baby brother finally speaks after another minute of a silence that feels like a coating of hot tar, and the words are blunt and direct, far, far away from the gentle coaxing Dean expected to hear. They hold a warning somewhere in there – _fight me on this, I dare you,_ and Dean’s initial response is just to stare for a while. Sam seems fine with the waiting. His hands are crossed on his chest, but his gaze is locked with Dean's.

"I'm just calling it like I see it, Sam," he finally replies.

"You're full of shit," Sam corrects him, and he sounds weary and tired, not bitchy as Dean expected. "And I want you to shut up and hear me out, because you are not going to see the end of this until you do," Sam adds, and _there’s_ the bitchiness.

It’s been long enough for their eyes to adjust to the darkness surrounding them, and Dean can tell from the grim obstinacy set deep around his brother’s eyes that trying to cajole here would be fruitless. So he just keeps his mouth shut and glowers. Sam’s never had any issue with fighting dirty, and Dean knows it’s better for him to just take the demand literally and keep silent.

Once Sam’s satisfied that no protests are going to be voiced, he tilts his head back against the headboard.

"This isn't about Karen," Sam says as his eyes close, all saintly patient in his explanation. "Not anymore. I’m well aware that you're not her, Dean. But I also know that there was a whole lot of overlap and you can’t tell me that that doesn’t count."

That’s a good point there, Dean has to admit, but the whole problem is _which_ parts of him are the ones Sam’s latching onto. He fidgets a bit, ready to speak, but the sharp look Sam sends him makes him hold his tongue.

"Anyway. I know you think I’m just clinging onto memories, and that I'm lonely and confused about what I want, but I don’t think you realise that you haven’t changed all that much. I bet it _feels_ like you have, especially since I’ve made life hell for you before I found out about the baby, and I’m sorry for that, but since then we’re almost back to the way we were before. Can you blame me for wanting the rest of it back?"

The stop feels final this time, but Dean still gives it a while to avoid being cut off again.

"Are you done?" he asks after a contemplative minute.

"I… yeah. I'm done."

"Good. 'Cause I've got something to say."

Dean props himself up on his elbows and calls forward every strength reserve he owns in his body and soul, because the rest of this conversation is most likely going to be one of the most painful things he’s ever done to himself. And to Sam. But he collects himself, making sure he’s braced for the hurricane his brother’s reaction is probably going to be.

Dean can't afford not to say it, though; he’s gotta break through his brother’s illusion that would make them crash and burn if Dean enabled them to play it out even for a little while.

"You haven't thought this through, Sam," he starts, proud of his voice for not wavering. "And y'know how I know? Because I know what you want in life. You screamed it at Dad the day you left for Stanford, and then I’ve heard it all repeated a couple months ago when you made that speech about quitting hunting and finding somewhere safe to start a family with Miss Perfect. That's not me, dude." A shudder-quick swallow, and his strength fails him enough that he has to look away. "It never was," he adds at the end, and it’s so little that it comes out as a desperate whisper.

“Wait. What are you saying?” Sam asks incredulously. “That when you turn yourself back to normal you’ll just go back to hunting again?” he demands, wishing to hell he could yell out the words at Dean, but is still keenly aware that Bobby’s sleeping on the same floor as them. He can't keep down the anger that flashes in his eyes as a reaction to Dean’s words, because if his brother has forgotten that they’re the only hunters’ kids they know of that had a parent survive long enough to see them reach adulthood, there’s going to bloodshed _this very night_.

“Of course that’s not what I meant,” Dean grunts out and shoots his brother a dirty look, because just how selfish of a bastard does he think he is? He’d never bring that down on his baby girl.

“My point is that once Mary is born, I’m turning back to normal, like you’ve just said, and then what? You'll be stuck with me because of some stupid promise you think you have to make, and afterwards the first person you’ll stumble upon will be a better choice than me and you'll want to change your mind, and then we’ll be totally fucked."

Sam huffs at that. Okay, so Dean’s not a complete idiot, but…

“You think this is about _bodies_?” Sam asks, sounding like he can’t exactly wrap his mind around what he’s hearing.

Dean makes this uncomfortable face, like he wants to say ‘well _,_ duh’ _,_ but stops it short when he figures by the way Sam’s looking at him that he just might be missing something here.

“You think I’ll stop wanting you when you get back into your own body. Is that it?” Sam asks and honest to god _chuckles_.

And yeah, there it is, the missing piece – Sam for some reason not caring about all that. Dean’s face twists into a look usually reserved for dogs when their owners fake-throw the ball and they can’t figure out where it is, and Sam’s now laughing at him. Dean’s mouth starts doing its work, opening and closing, but it’s like looking at a fish in an aquarium, there’s no sound coming out.

“I bet you think you’d be the first guy I’d ever be with, right?” Sam continues the scrutiny through his mirth, and _holy hell,_ Dean thinks, because he had no idea.

“ _Sammy-”_ Dean starts, and it’s all big-brother growl even though the voice is too feminine for its full effect, ‘who the hell am I killin’’ hidden between each syllable. “Someone took a walk on the wild side at college, huh?” he accuses, spits the words out, and it sounds so nasty that it even makes _him_ aware of how irrational and dickish he’s acting. It’s not like _he_ hasn’t choked on dick once or twice during his wilder years. No more than that, and it took a whole lot of liquor in his system to get there, but the point is that he _has_ , and he hasn’t regretted it either. Hell, those few times he thought back on it, what he actually regretted was not having the balls to go all the way. 

“High school, actually,” Sam says, and Dean has to force down a soap opera-worthy gasp. Sam catches it and is back to chuckling when he adds: “that winter we stayed in Maine. Gary, the quarterback whose sister you thought I was banging.”

Yeah, ok, that’s enough for Dean to go on to be able to hunt down the motherfucker. He knows he’s one twisted puppy for being possessive and jealous over a guy Sam might have fucked years ago, but there’s no helping your own damned nature. And besides, he’s getting side-tracked here, because this wasn’t the point.   

Now that Sammy’s bisexuality has made itself known, the last straw of the ‘why this is not a good idea’ bundle snapped, and the only thing Dean has left is a curveball, a mean one, made exclusively out of stubbornness and pride, and it takes an eternity before he manages to say: "then maybe I don't want this." Quiet and harsh, without looking at Sam, and that makes the silence that follows pure agony, though he doesn't really need looking at Sam to know that his brother is wide-eyed and hurt by the words.

"If that's true, I'll back off," Sam agrees after a moment of stunned silence, voice still sounding determination but definitely gone softer. "But you've gotta tell me flat out, and I don't think you can."

Dean is working on convincing himself that that’s something he’s just about to do, when Sam's hand unexpectedly slips under the covers and settles low on his stomach, barely above his panty-line, and it sends the world tilting. It’s a move singing of muscle-memory, of a familiarity that doesn’t bear a hint of hesitation, and it continues as his fingers find the hem of Dean’s t-shirt and slip under it.

Dean had coherent thoughts that he now can’t even catch glimpses of, had things he wanted to say that now seem to be lost to a void. His breath catches in his throat as he lifts his eyes and sees the fire that’s burning in Sam’s, hot and wild and aimed right at him. He can't break free of the stare, and the only place his mind is drawn to is the heat of Sam's palm as it burns soft across his skin.

"Sam?" he whispers, questioning, embarrassed at the strained tremor he hears in his own voice.

"Don't do this, Dean," Sam pleads, staring down through the darkness as he inches a bit closer to his brother. "Don't keep shoving me away. I'm not changing my mind about this."

"You don't know that," Dean says, and it’s such a small sound that it almost comes out as a whine. Because that’s what Dean is actually afraid of. He said goodbye to Sam once already, when he was left stranded in that dingy motel-room for a miserable week that he mostly spent staring at the wall and mourning a future he wasn’t aware he even wanted as bad as he did until he let it slip through his fingers with an honest confession.

"Yes I do. I'm goddamn sure, Dean. And how could you even say that I’d abandon you as soon as you shifted? How fucking vain do you think I am? And after everything you've done for me. After everything you've been for me, how can you even think it?"

Dean's brain feels too fried to supply anything, and no one could blame him. The heavy heat of Sam's hand on his stomach is too much, long fingers stretching impossibly wide along his taut skin, but as big of a fire as it’s sending between his legs, it's really got nothing to do with sex and everything to do with _them_. With everything they’ve become that’s hanging indecipherable between them.

"You would've given up everything you are for me. You were going to marry me, Dean. You’re _having_ _my baby_ ,” Sam presses on.  

Dean’s heart is hammering away by then, and they lapse into another stretched pause. There’s barely any room left between them, what with Sam having inched himself closer and closer until he has Dean practically in his arms. Dean can't move to break the proximity, caught into something that feels a lot like paralysis; he can't even bring himself to shatter the eye-contact that locks them together.

"Dean," Sam finally says, momentarily the less stubborn one, his fingers moving higher on Dean’s stomach and stroking him right where their little girl lays, making him inhale sharply. "Can I kiss you? Just a kiss, I swear," he begs out through a whisper, already lowering his head over Dean’s face so that all that’s needed on his part is a slight tilt for their lips to be able to brush together.

The words seem weirdly out of place because they’ve been in this exact same position hundreds of times before, that making this new extra step feel wrong, and Dean doesn't know how to respond. Sam's eyes hold nothing in there that would indicate even a flicker of doubt, just that same love and worship that’s always been there whenever they’d close the doors and leave the world behind them.

"Okay," he's surprised to hear as his response. "But that's it. Just a kiss. So you can hurry up and figure out you're just really, stupidly confused."

Sam doesn’t bother gracing Dean’s bullshit with a reply, he just moves slightly until he gets their lips locked together. Dean keeps his eyes open until the last second, waiting until he’s seen Sam’s flutter shut before closing his own.

It's one of their slower kisses, but it’s sweet and deep, Sam's tongue delving into Dean’s mouth after only a bit of coaxing, agonizingly gentle. Sam's hand still burns against his belly, warm and reverent, while his other one slips under Dean’s shoulders and into his hair. It’s always been Sam's thing, holding onto the locks at Dean’s nape, keeping him in place or manoeuvring him into the shapes he wants. His body becomes a furnace of heat above Dean now that there’s not even a millimetre of space left between them.

Dean's head is spinning; maybe it’s not even properly attached, at least based on his arms flying seemingly of their own accord around his brother’s neck and pulling him even closer despite it seeming impossible. This is the exact thing he was trying to fight off, the thought’s ringing somewhere in the back of his head, duller and duller with each jolt of pleasure that hits his body; it’s something that should feel blindingly wrong, but Dean’s too far gone to try and figure out why it doesn't when the hand on his belly slowly starts going lower down his body.

He can't figure it out, and maybe it doesn't matter, because this on Sammy’s part feels like real conviction. They’re too Neanderthal, both of them, too much reliance on touch, stares, grunting, and just about anything that could pass for nonverbal communication during their shared childhoods that’s left them handicapped, and now all of their words are crashing hollow around them as one smothering kiss starts speaking volumes.

More than a kiss, because the elastic of Dean’s panties is already pulling on Sam’s hand. ‘Just a kiss’, his ass, but it would be a lie to complain that he minds.

Sam turns his face into the pillow and groans as loud as he dares, because his fingers find Dean sopping wet, slick all around even before entering Dean’s folds, and it’s all the proof he needs to know that Dean must have started craving his touch the moment Sam crawled into his bed.

“ _There_ we are,” Sam mutters through a self-satisfied smirk against Dean’s ear as he slips two fingers at once inside Dean’s heat, making his brother’s back arch and body release an almost violent shudder. He’s making sure to keep his palm tracing circles heavily but gently over Dean’s clit as his fingers start working towards a steady rhythm; in and out and scissoring around just the way he knows will make Dean go wild beneath him.

Dean’s lost control of his breathing, gasps stolen away from him with every variation of movement Sam’s fingers introduce. The connection from his brain to mouth also seems to have broken somewhere because he’s kissing his brother now, but it’s a sloppy, uncoordinated thing as his hips start following the movements of Sam’s hand. He can almost feel under his own fingertips how smug Sam is at the moment for having added this thing between them to the ‘for’ pile; this messy dance of sweaty bodies, proof of how well practiced they are at it, their limbs and mouths knowing exactly how to respond no matter how long it’s been since they’ve last done this to each other.

“Come on, Dean,” Sam urges his brother, not because he’s losing patience, but because he’s becoming painfully aware of the throbs his erection is giving out to call for his attention. “For me,” he adds, practically groans out as his mouth traces messy kisses at Dean’s temple.

It’s _such_ a dirty request, baby brother asking him to come for him while knowing who he is; it’s not the first time he’s heard that same request slip off Sam’s lips, but it’s still so different from before, when he’s had Karen’s anonymity, and Dean’s such a twisted puppy that he’s reaching the finish-line a mere three breaths after the filth has left Sam’s mouth.

His inner muscles clench around Sam’s fingers sweetly, in rapid pulses; his hands are pulling at Sam’s hair and bicep to bring their bodies closer even though it feels like there’s no space left to fill; a scream of ecstasy is being bitten down and smothered into Sam’s broad shoulder as his brother helps ease him off the edge with slowing caresses and whispered praise. 

They stay tangled like that for a little while after Sam’s fingers have slowed to a stop, no more than half a minute though it feels like ten to both, Dean’s panting turning into ragged breaths by the time he feels Sam peel off his underwear and tug it down in one gentle swipe.

Sam doesn’t ask for permission, he doesn’t ask anything, knowing he doesn’t need to when Dean’s legs fall open and inviting as soon as the thin cotton passes his delicate ankles and movement is no longer restricted. Sam’s above him and between the spread of his legs in an instant, his own boxers pulled down almost frantically, barely low enough to allow his erection to spring free. Without a warning or hesitancy he presses the blunt tip of his cock to Dean’s slick, sweet opening, making his brother’s hips jerk, then sheathing himself into Dean’s tight heat in only one stroke, making Dean gasp louder than the thin walls surrounding them probably allow.

And suddenly Sam’s fifteen again, losing his virginity with the pretty Stacy Roomers on the backseat of her hand-me-down Honda, stilling completely because apparently pussy is ten times better than he expected it would be and he’s about to blow his wad before he even gets five strokes in. It’s that same situation repeating itself almost a decade later, when he’s a grown man with stamina that can usually get him to last for hours if he wants to.

He closes his eyes tight, face acquiring a pained expression as his jaw clenches hard, his teeth grinding audibly against one another.

“It’s okay, Sam,” he hears Dean’s whisper break through his torture.

Sam has always played it safe; the only time he’s ever fucked anyone bareback was that last, idiotically drunken time when he’d climbed on top of Dean like a complete asshole, plastered enough to not even consider a condom. He’s sober for it now though, and it shouldn’t be this big of a surprise to find that sinking his cock deep into Dean’s pussy feels like _heaven_. 

His eyes open almost involuntarily at Dean’s beckoning and he’s rewarded with a sight that’s just too fucking _beautiful_.

Dean’s legs are spread wide, with thighs pulled back to his sides so that they’re almost horizontal, allowing Sam the deepest penetration possible. His pupils are blown; his plump, pretty mouth slightly open in what looks like the hottest pout ever. As Dean lifts his hands to cup Sam’s cheeks, Sam kisses one, then the other, movements automatic as if he’s in a daze, and the loving gesture makes Dean smile.

“I know,” Dean says, voice filled with understanding as he tilts and shimmies his hips to drive the point home, making bright lights flash and burn behind Sam’s eyes. And yeah, Sam bets he _does_ understands exactly how fighting this type of urge feels like, probably knows full well what it’s like to get inside a woman bare when she’s wet and hot and ready, and having it be so good right from the very beginning that he almost comes in the first minute.

Seemingly on a mission to drive him insane, Dean lets his hands drop to his sides and slowly lifts himself up on his elbows, brings his face a mere inch away from Sam’s. His breath is hot and moist on Sam’s lips as his throaty whisper breaks the hush of the room again: “fill me up, Sammy,” voice turning into finest velvet, and it does the trick majestically, instantly, as Sam’s cock deep within him starts pumping him full as his brother groans out his name above him.

Sweaty and sated, Sam braces himself on his forearms above Dean; they’re chest to chest, but Sam holds back enough of his weight to not crush Dean’s body. They stay like that for a while, their foreheads pressed together, breathing the same air.

He finds his brother’s eyes half-open and on him once he reopens his own, that same old goofy postcoital grin stretched across his wicked mouth. Sam’s sure that in the long run it will take more than just a bit of sex to convince Dean that he meant every word he said, that he loves him and will stay with him for as long as Dean will have him without having a change of heart, but at least this is a step in the right direction. Momentarily, the fear and insecurity have been purged from the bedroom, leaving Dean melting under him in a puddle of happy, and for now, that’s all that matters. 

The sleepy spell of contentment gets broken gradually, once they both become aware of the cold settling lightly over their exposed skin, and the mess that’s threatening to happen between Dean’s legs as the blood slowly leaves Sam’s cock. Wordlessly they begin moving in unison, Dean helping Sam pull his t-shirt over his head and then Sam using it to catch the mess between Dean’s legs before they get it on the sheets. Dean squirms a bit at the attention as Sam caressingly wipes away what his mind needlessly supplies is a creampie, but makes no sound of protest.  

The shirt is discarded on the floor as Sam drops back down on the mattress by Dean’s side, moving his brother’s small body into the shape that fits his own, front pressed to Dean’s back and nose buried in the long, silky hair draped over the pillow.

His hand finds Dean’s belly again, and just before sleep catches him completely he feels the smallest flutter of movement under his fingertips that tugs out a smile on his face, and he falls asleep in serenity and bliss.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

When Mary finally comes into the world, even the heavens rejoice.

But, by god, they thought _hunting_ was exhausting? Enter parenthood.

Dean thought once, after that nice, pudgy doctor in the town with the windmills mentioned breastfeeding for the first time, that there was no such reality in which he would ever consider doing it. But when the nurse put the pink little bundle in his hands, some force within him had him immediately slip the hospital gown over his shoulder and let his newborn daughter latch onto his darkened nipple while Sam sat crying by his side, overawed by the proceedings.

Even though every new day brings on a new struggle, it also makes them fall more and more in love with their little girl. There’s baby clothes and accessories scattered all over the flat, making it look like a pink flamingo exploded in it; a full night’s sleep has become a distant memory; their sex life took a nosedive, but whenever she smiles at them, their magical little girl, they get hit by one of those spells that make them feel like it’s all worth it, changing diapers included.

Sam’s doing everything in his power to shoulder the burdens they took on as new parents, but Dean is still the _mom_ in the house, no matter how pissy being aware of that fact makes him.

Though the postpartum hormonal rollercoaster was even more intense than what the pregnancy itself brought on, Dean didn’t shift to escape it.  

He can feel the magic within him waiting, as if there’s a lever inside that needs pulling. Even though both he and Sam were sure he’d be doing it the moment they came back to their flat after the birth, Dean hesitated, and by the time the morning after came, he changed his mind completely. He’d like to think that it’s for Mary’s sake, after so many subtle hints from multiple doctors about the benefits of breastfeeding over bottle-feeding, but the status quo of his body is preserved mostly because of the ‘what if-s’.

He’s far from being a coward, but fear in a situation such as theirs feels reasonable. They’ve talked about it, him and Sam, and they both agreed it was probably safe. _Probably._ That goddamned word grated.

It will have to be done eventually, the shift, or else Dean feels that, down the road, he might actually lose his mind. He didn’t grow tired of the body he’s in; in fact, with Sam’s eager help he’s learned to enjoy it to the fullest extent, but he still needs to _be himself_ , at least for a while, in order to retain his identity and sanity. Some part of him hopes that the magic now residing within him is a permanent type of deal, and that he’ll be able to switch between bodies whenever he will choose to, but that also requires that first voluntary shift to happen.

_Soon_ , as Dean’s been telling himself, but two months have already flown by.

It’s the dead of night when Dean’s bladder wakes him up.

Sasquatch has one heavy arm draped over his chest, squishing achy breasts full with milk, and Dean grunts in discomfort. He wiggles out of the embrace, sliding out of bed and going to the bathroom on tiptoe; he has to, because Sam’s become the lightest of sleepers since the baby-monitor got its permanent residence on his nightstand.

In his sleepy state, with tired eyes that are barely open, he forgets about the chest of drawers they’ve fit by the bathroom door two days ago. He walks hip first into the polished oakwood, the impact producing a dull thud. Sam shifts in bed but doesn’t wake, and Dean has his left hand between his teeth, biting onto the back of it to stifle the cry threatening to escape his lips. His hip hurts like a _bitch_. He wants to groan and grumble, but can’t, so he goes the rest of the way in maddening silence. He closes the door behind him as gently as he’s able and angrily throws himself on the toilet seat, underwear pooling around his ankles.

The lights are low, courtesy of the dimmer switches Sam insisted to be installed in the entire flat, and it takes a while for Dean to register the blood smeared on his inner thighs and underwear.

Now he _really_ wants to groan, because so much for ‘if you breastfeed, your period won’t be back for a long time’. Mary turned two months a mere few days ago, but there it is, the continuous flow that’s been the bane of his existence since the first time he got it.

He stands up from the toilet with a muttered curse and tosses the ruined underwear into a corner, scrunching some toilet paper between his thighs before he starts the search for his pads and tampons. Which he knows are _somewhere_ , but it’s been months since he’s last seen them. He starts going through the shelves, hoping not to make any noise as he makes a mess of everything, shuffling and knocking things over, when his peripheral vision catches his own reflection in the mirror.

_‘Hey there, little girl’_ is the first, absolutely idiotic thought that goes through his mind. He’s a wife and a mother – a statement he wouldn’t be able to speak aloud without trying to chew his tongue off simultaneously - even though he’s wearing a face that has trouble getting him into bars sometimes.

And that’s it. He’s _done_. Done with putting up with this shit, he decides in a fleeting burst of anger, throwing the tampons right back into the basket he’s just dug them out of. He’s a grown man, he’s _Dean_ _fucking Winchester,_ for crying out loud, and he’s _done._ He’s stalled enough, too long, even though there was no reason to believe that the Trickster lied about it being safe. He never asked for any of this, and even though both he and Sam are now more grateful to the Trickster than anything else, it has to end.

Suddenly wide awake from the adrenaline rush his anger and determination brought on, he closes his eyes, breathes in deep, feels the cold seep from the bare tiles into the soles of his feet, and ignores the beginnings of pain in his uterus. He leans on the sink with both hands, opening his eyes, and gives himself one last good look in the mirror. A pretty face meets him in the reflexion; a pretty girl, but she’s just one half of the coin.

He figures it’s probably best not to watch the change once it starts, imagining it to be a gruesome affair, so he hangs his head, tucking his chin on his chest, and calls upon the magic within his core with a thought.

Though he’s braced himself for pain, there’s none of it this time around, surprisingly. The whole affair lasts only a beat or two, and once it’s over, the first sensation he gets to marvel at is that he got through it without almost breaking his teeth like the last two times. The second one that hits him is the awareness that he’s by at least a head taller. That’s followed by the feel of broadened shoulders, then the perfect fit of his old Metallica t-shirt he’s been using as nightwear, and the last one to come at him is the lack of sleep-ruffled mane at his nape.

When his eyes snap open, they’re no longer chestnut but vibrantly green. The gently blended features of John Winchester and Mary Campbell stare right back at him, and _god_ , he’s vain, but he’s _gorgeous_.

He smiles at himself.

Grins.

Would whoop and dance, but _Jesus_ does he need to get back to sleep.

An unparalleled tiredness hits him like a sledgehammer as soon as he moves the first muscle. He doesn’t know if it’s because he’s used magic that’s not exactly his, or because the last time he’s had this body up and running it was sleep depraved, about to crash with a belly half-full with nothing but bitter gas station coffee. The energy drain is so severe that he doesn’t even care to dwell on it, he just turns the lights off and walks out of the bathroom, almost tripping over his own feet before crawling back into bed next to Sam, who’s in for quite a surprise when the morning comes.

His brother shuffles a bit when he feels Dean’s weight make a dip in the mattress, but thankfully doesn’t reach over.

There’s only an atom of strength left in Dean’s body before sleep overtakes him, and he spends it on feeling out for the magic inside him. After only a bit of prodding, he finds it within himself, humming through his veins and his core, just waiting to be called upon again. So the Trickster _did_ keep his promise after all, Dean thinks, and smiles against himself.

That’s big, _real_ big, but the implications of the revelation are too heavy a subject for his weary mind to ponder at just now. But they’ll quickly fly into his head once he awakens, as soon as Mary gives out her first wail of the day.

Then, he’ll realise that he’ll still be able to have his baby at his breast and feed her as nature intended. Also, with a worked out schedule, his little girl will be able to have a mother, while Dean will still be able to be himself whenever the occasion will allow for it _._ The last epiphany that will hit him is that he’ll be able to have more babies, if he will choose to, though it’ll be Sam’s very first one once he gets filled in on all the details.

Slowly, so as not to disturb Sam’s sleep, Dean inches a bit closer to his brother’s side. He’s exhausted but almost giddy with anticipation of the morning, when he knows Sam will wake up rock-hard by his side as he always does, and fuck his – now technically virgin once again - ass into the mattress. And it’ll be good. Sam will make it so _good_ for him, he knows _._

With that thought and a smile on his face, with his dick lazily filled to half-mast, Dean falls asleep, happy with his life; content.

~*~*~*~*~*~*~

And after years of verbal tug-of-war and plenty of compromise, Dean will be able to convince Sam that three children is _more_ than enough.

They’ll also adopt a little dog Mary will insist on naming Buffy, much to the boys’ embarrassment.

~fin~

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you so much for reading. If you've liked my adaptation of dreamitlittleyo's brilliant story, please drop a comment and let me know if I've done it justice. Constructive criticism is more than welcome, in fact, it would mean the world to me!


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